tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38171732012-02-16T01:57:20.037-08:00PoetryPoetry and song and maybe cultureGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comBlogger891100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-26282037592620441272010-08-19T07:42:00.000-07:002010-08-19T07:43:14.439-07:00This be the verse- Phillip LarkinThey fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do.They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you.But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats,Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats.Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf.Get out as Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-70356340415626436332010-02-25T15:47:00.000-08:002010-02-25T15:54:01.618-08:00Haiku- C. LittleBlossoms on bird bathplum blossoms ring theshining rain mirror whose depthsreflect the whole treeGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-6230108097567100272010-02-25T14:52:00.000-08:002010-02-25T14:53:55.725-08:00A hundred wordsA hundred words to talk of death?At once too much and not enough.My plans beyond that final breathare currently a little rough.The dying thing comes on so slow:reluctance to get out of bedis magnified each day and so transmuted into dead.I dream of dying all alone,nobody there to watch me passnothing remains for me to own,no breath remains to fog the glass.And when I do put down myGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-48683112817304508112009-11-09T22:07:00.000-08:002009-11-09T22:08:22.833-08:00Lonelinesse.e. cummings shows us that a good poem can be only four words long.l(aleaffalls)onelinessGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-41393481786357237462009-11-09T21:58:00.000-08:002009-11-09T22:07:34.210-08:00Introduction to Poetry - Billy CollinsI ask them to take a poemand hold it up to the lightlike a color slideor press an ear against its hive.I say drop a mouse into a poemand watch him probe his way out,or walk inside the poem's roomand feel the walls for a light switch.I want them to waterskiacross the surface of a poemwaving at the author's name on the shore.But all they want to dois tie the Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-17666672936268780912008-10-08T23:48:00.000-07:002008-10-08T23:58:06.054-07:00What We Might Be, What We Are - - by X. J. Kennedy If you were a scoop of vanillaAnd I were the cone where you sat,If you were a slowly pitched baseballAnd I were the swing of a bat, If you were a shiny new fishhookAnd I were a bucket of worms,If we were a pin and a pincushion,We might be on intimate terms. If you were a plate of spaghettiAnd I were your piping-hot sauce,We’d not even need to Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-76140686104469469762008-02-16T10:36:00.000-08:002008-02-16T10:39:10.512-08:00Valentine for Ernest MannYou can't order a poem like you order a taco.Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"and expect it to be handed back to youon a shiny plate.Still, I like your spirit.Anyone who says, "Here's my address,write me a poem," deserves something in reply.So I'll tell you a secret instead:poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,they are sleeping. They are the shadowsdrifting Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-37156726449891672272008-02-01T15:35:00.000-08:002008-02-01T16:28:56.960-08:00From Duino Elegies - - - Rainer Maria RilkeEvery angel is terrifying.And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note of my dark sobbing.Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need?Not angels, not humans, and already the knowing animals are awarethat we are not really at home in our interpreted world.Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside, which every day we can take into our visionGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-22964087390319513722007-09-05T22:35:00.000-07:002007-09-05T22:36:49.508-07:00One Art by Elizabeth Bishop The art of losing isn't hard to master;so many things seem filled with the intentto be lost that their loss is no disaster.Lose something every day. Accept the flusterof lost door keys, the hour badly spent.The art of losing isn't hard to master.Then practice losing farther, losing faster:places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-58308101489053564862007-03-21T08:17:00.000-07:002007-03-21T08:20:59.341-07:00From Her To Eternity- for Solveig Dommartinby Collin Kelley in Blue Fifth Review (Winter 2007)For seven days I wish you undead.As long as your name doesn't appearin the news, the only evidence is this:a three-line note to tell your final hours, last words, how you left this world.Here’s another beautiful woman deadin the city of lights, another ghostto haunt familiar streets, when I crossPlace Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-24663710987477353522007-02-24T13:31:00.000-08:002007-02-24T13:32:24.114-08:00DemocracyDemocracy will not comeToday, this yearNor everThrough compromise and fear.I have as much right As the other fellow hasTo standOn my two feet And own the land.I tire so of hearing people say, Let things take their course.Tomorrow is another day.I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.FreedomIs a strong seedPlantedIn a great need.I live here, too.I want Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1162145938900091072006-10-29T10:13:00.000-08:002006-10-29T10:18:58.910-08:00NEWSWichita, Kansas - July 1945Vivian dashes in from thunder,newspaper soaring over her head.She stands in the kitchen, dripping,laughing. She kisses me.Her fingers are inky, her face printedwith news.RESTArdennes - January 1945The hardest thingwas sleep - that cold.Cold enough to crack stoneYou couldn't lie downin it - or even sit.Even the springs of the riflesslow.MORNINGArdennes - January Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1153774719936913562006-07-24T13:52:00.000-07:002006-07-24T13:58:40.033-07:00How to recognize a poem when you see oneThis is disappearing so I have repeated it here.English 4950Spring 2004How to Recognize a Poem When You See One--Stanley Fish[1] Last time I sketched out an argument by which meanings are the property neither of fixed and stable texts nor of free and independent readers but of interpretive communities that are responsible both for the shape of a reader's Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1149537475889123252006-06-05T12:53:00.000-07:002006-06-05T12:57:56.396-07:00Howl - Allen Ginsberg saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness ofGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1145831898181204242006-04-23T15:38:00.000-07:002006-04-23T16:00:37.406-07:00One bookOne book(revised from Tome of Hate - Glacian)I-That-I-Am says that you should not eat hamand if you erect a golden ram, you shall be forever damned.Thou shalt not think thou shall believeeven if prophets do deceive.Paul says that He justifiedThat's how I know that he lied.Would you, could you kill your sonIf God commands that it be done?Would you, could you rape a wifeOr end a heathen's blamelessGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1139794571491234992006-02-12T17:36:00.000-08:002006-02-12T17:36:11.566-08:00To Praise by Ellan BassI want to praise bodiesnerves and synapsesthe shudder that travels the spinelike fish dartingI want to praise the mouth that warm wet lair where the tongue reclinesand the tongue, rousedslithering a cool pathI want to praise handsthose architects that create us anewfingers, cartographers, revealingwho we can becomeand palms, cupped priestessesworshipping the long slow Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1133429187586853502005-12-01T01:26:00.000-08:002005-12-01T01:26:27.600-08:00Stephanie Strickland's The Red Virgin, a poem of Simone WeilThere ComesIf you do not fight it---if you look, justlook, steadily,upon it,there comesa moment when you cannot do it,if it is evil;if good, a momentwhen you cannotnot.Gustave Thibon, How Simone Weil Appeared to Me/3Kisses and embraces disgusted her.I never saw her cry.She loved tobacco.Of all the things belongingto material life, Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1129687281866079072005-10-18T18:59:00.000-07:002005-10-18T19:01:21.873-07:00The painful poignancy of desire (Postromantic poetry)Claudia MoscoviciDreamEyes sparkling deepLightest of sleepMouth full of kissesAll that I'm missingHands that exploreLips that adoreDon't hesitateForget your regretDelve into meSwim in my seaRide on my wavesFind all enclavesRichest of lifePassion and strifeFull of emotionTo and fro motionFlow like a streamColor my dreamShow me desireLift me up Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1128994056533122852005-10-10T18:27:00.000-07:002005-10-10T18:29:17.146-07:00C. Little, no less, I am always refreshed going to her site, photos and poetry and little bits of life.i am a warriori am not at wari am seeking peace.i work for peace.peace for us all.peace for myself.my struggles are your struggles.my success is yours also.i am a warrior.the opponent is unseen.i am a warrior.the victory is not celebrated,but felt.the battles are bloodlessand brutal.i am a Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1128992841117697222005-10-10T18:03:00.000-07:002005-10-10T18:07:21.126-07:00Boob PoemAuthor UnknownFor years and years they told me,Be careful of your breasts.Don't ever squeeze or bruise them.And give them monthly tests.So I heeded all their warnings,And protected them by law.Guarded them very carefully,And I always wore my bra.After 30 years of astute care,My gyno, Dr. Pruitt,Said I should get a Mammogram."O.K." I said, 'let's do it.""Stand up here real close" she saidGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1124951683819202102005-08-24T23:20:00.000-07:002005-08-24T23:34:43.826-07:00Texas Love SongElton John and Bernie TaupinI heard from a friend you'd been messing aroundWith a cute little thing I'd been dating uptownWell I don't know if I like that idea muchWell you'd better stay clear I might start acting roughYou out of town guys sure think you're real keenThink all of us boys are homespun and greenBut that's wrong my friend so get this through your headWe're tough and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1124425102800059662005-08-18T21:18:00.000-07:002005-08-18T21:18:22.806-07:00Salon.com - "We sing the body electric..."
Sometimes I feel
Bad about the way I
Look.
Oh well. At least I can
Write poetry.
It's easy!
-- Anonymous staff member from the Academy of American Poets
and more at link.Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1124415212148795432005-08-18T18:31:00.000-07:002005-08-18T18:33:32.156-07:00Soul Works+++++++++++++++++What van Gogh sawby Raphaelle KosekVan Gogh sawthe way our hearts burnlike the pinwheel starsswirling in the night-mad sky,the way our spirits,bent and bruised in life's field,reach endlessly upwardlike the cypress treesfull of knotty whorlscurling upwards to mingle with,and plead benediction from,the sea-waved sky,the way wild-maned sunflowersare almost dizzy with Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1107549471706917662005-02-04T12:37:00.000-08:002005-02-04T12:37:51.706-08:00From Human Wishes by Robert Hass
"Privilege Of Being"
... clutching each other with old, invented
forms of grace and clumsy gratitude, ready
to be alone again, or dissatisfied, or merely
companionable like the couples on the summer beach
reading magazine articles about intimacy between the sexes
to themselves, and to each other,
and to the immense, illiterate, consoling angels.
"Santa BarbaraGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1107546866450692722005-02-04T11:54:00.000-08:002005-02-04T11:54:26.450-08:00FROM the Voyeur: Poem: COMING DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN:
... You restrain me to the bed.
I would go there willingly, open
myself to you,
but the bonding is exponential to reality,
as if my mind could be changed from this course.
It cannot.
The blindfold lowers itself to my eyes,
a vital sense stilled,
conscious gentled.
Vulnerability is the midwife of control,
subtlety the offspring,
waiting, the Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1107546380087195212005-02-04T11:46:00.000-08:002005-02-04T11:46:20.086-08:00DEATH
Why did you vanish
into the empty sky?
Even the fragile snow,
when it falls,
falls in this world.
Izumi Shikibu
From Open Mind - by Diane Mariechild
Izumi's poem portrays the sorrow of a
mother mourning the death of her daughter.
The pain is palpable. There is no disguise.
There is no attempt to cover the pain
with intellectualization. We can watch to
see where the snow lands Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1104707021649102492005-01-02T15:03:00.000-08:002005-01-02T15:03:41.650-08:00
What Ever Happened to Peace On Earth - Willie Nelson
There's so many things going on in the world
Babies dying
Mothers crying
How much oil is one human life worth
And what ever happened to peace on earth
We believe everything that they tell us
They're gonna' kill us
So we gotta' kill them first
But I remember a commandment
Thou shall not kill
How much is that soldier's life worth
And whateverGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1104280518205699472004-12-28T16:30:00.000-08:002004-12-28T16:35:18.206-08:00"All I Want for Christmas is You"
Olivia Olson, "Love Actually" soundtrack
I don't want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don't care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas
Is you
I don't want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
and I don't care Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1103656919595316102004-12-21T11:14:00.000-08:002004-12-21T11:21:59.596-08:00Rubbernecker
The stories circle back and they change the names
The freshly painted lies all sound the same
I'm drowning in news of other people's pain
Like a peeping Tom, and I burn with shame
Life here goes on and it seems to change
We're all treading new water day after day
One eye on the games our masters play
Little flies on the walls of their firing range
They claim reason and rhyme, Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1089234223455914632004-07-07T14:01:00.000-07:002004-07-07T14:03:43.456-07:00I Invented Time
by Herb Brin
Hold back your clocks
Damn it, no requiem for me!
I'll rust those gears
With the fire spray of seas
That sweep my autumn years.
Crusts of age clog my knees
But I'll get along
At a lesser pace
At a lesser pace.
And softer my sighs
Gentler, more gentle
And as suns descend
I'll get along
It's moonlight saving time
For me.
I've many a mountain yet to climb
And the Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1087029386796992632004-06-12T01:32:00.000-07:002004-06-13T22:28:55.400-07:00
Waltzing Matilda
"Banjo" Paterson, 1893
Once a jolly swagman sat beside the billabong,
Under the shade of a coulibah tree,
And he sang as he sat and waited till his billy boiled:
Chorus:
Who'll come a waltzing matilda with me
Waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda
Who'll come a waltzing matilda with me
And he sang as he sat and waited by the billabong
Who'll come a waltzing matilda with me.
2. Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1085270772471727242004-05-22T16:52:00.000-07:002004-05-22T17:06:12.470-07:00Black Camellia
by Henri Cole
after Petrarch
Little room, with four and a half tatami mats
and sliding paper doors, that used to be
a white, translucent place to live in refined poverty,
what are you now but scalding water in a bath?
Little mattress, that used to fold around me
at sunrise as unfinished dreams were fading,
what are you now but a blood-red palanquin
of plucked feathers and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1085269790657263242004-05-22T16:47:00.000-07:002004-05-22T16:49:50.656-07:00is this a table? no, this is a poem
no great feasts of delicacies sweet
are laid upon it
for the body's eager consumption
no melons, no honey, no rich, dark bread
spread thick with golden butter,
no tender roasted essence of beast or fowl,
no fish from the sea or fruit from a tree,
no sweet wines crushed
from the fullness of sun-fed grape
to tempt the taste of jaded gourmand,
or sustain the Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1083552638536692202004-05-02T19:50:00.000-07:002004-05-02T19:53:47.670-07:00Always unsuitable
.......................by Marge Piercy
She wore little teeth of pearls around her neck.
They were grinning politely and evenly at me.
Unsuitable they smirked. It is true
I look a stuffed turkey in a suit. Breasts
too big for the silhouette. She knew
at once that we had sex, lots of it
as if I had strolled into her diningroom
in a dirty negligee smelling gamy
smelling fishy Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1079630575762216572004-03-18T09:22:00.000-08:002004-03-18T09:25:19.780-08:00Peter, Paul & Mary - "Wedding Song (There Is Love) Lyrics
He is now to be among you at the calling of your hearts
Rest assured this troubador is acting on His part.
The union of your spirits, here, has caused Him to remain
For whenever two or more of you are gathered in His name
There is Love. There is Love.
Well a man shall leave his mother and a woman leave her home
And they shall travel onGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1079164713329963182004-03-12T23:58:00.000-08:002004-03-13T00:09:48.810-08:00THE HIGHWAYMAN
I.
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding –
Riding – riding –
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of claretGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1079163457683146292004-03-12T23:37:00.000-08:002004-03-12T23:40:50.436-08:00From The Poet's Kit
I decree that
Every poet of worth
Be armed with sledgehammer
And scalpel,
Small tweezers
Blowtorch
First aid kit
And plenty of all-purpose
Glue--
- hans beihl at xenowave, who also writes:
Omnivore Politics
I
Eating
is a reprehensible
habit
she righteously uttered.
With great effort
I have given up lobster
and beef,
and aspire to
absolute abstinence
from all things that Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1079158908831509712004-03-12T22:21:00.000-08:002004-03-12T22:26:21.013-08:00Linda at C. Little, no less started that blog a year ago with this bit of poetry from Mary Oliver and a picture of her grandson.
Wage Peace
by Mary Oliver
Wage peace with your breath.
Breathe in firemen and rubble,
breathe out whole buildings and flocks of redwing blackbirds.
Breathe in terrorists and breathe out
sleeping children and freshly mown fields.
Breathe in confusion and breathe out Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1076663463968321272004-02-13T01:11:00.000-08:002004-02-13T01:12:53.840-08:00I, I can remember
Standing by the wall
And the guns shot above our heads
And we kissed,
as though nothing could fall
And the shame was on the other side
Oh we can beat them,
Forever and ever
Then we could be Heroes,
just for one day...
-- david bowieGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1075771429381979762004-02-02T17:23:00.000-08:002004-02-02T17:25:28.623-08:00Politics
by William Butler Yeats
'In our time the destiny of man presents its meanings in political terms.' -Thomas Mann
How can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has both read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1075771251936148592004-02-02T17:20:00.000-08:002004-02-02T17:22:31.216-08:00This Is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1074473215778150752004-01-18T16:46:00.000-08:002004-01-18T16:53:03.810-08:00Sex Without Love
by Sharon Olds
How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1073283015605237922004-01-04T22:10:00.000-08:002004-01-04T22:50:48.576-08:00twice five syllables
plus seven can't say much but
that's haiku for you.
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1071599337418506522003-12-16T10:28:00.000-08:002004-01-04T22:51:08.936-08:00Morning verses
There is little to look at now,
sitting on the back stoop
drinking coffee--alone before dawn,
without the company of birds.
Beneath a sickly gray cover of clouds
(sickly because they reflect the gaseous
light of human occupation)
noise carries from the Radnor Yards,
squeals and siren soundings,
couplings and uncouplings all night long,
an orgy of trains.
Kurt Brobeck
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1069466897543415532003-11-21T18:08:00.000-08:002003-11-21T18:08:44.746-08:00CRAZY WORLD by Carol Graduate
We destroy our collections
of grisly offenses.
Bombs, bullets, anthrax disappear
as if they never were.
Rich purple tulips, dazzling daisies,
grain and milk
are exchanged. Everyone
has plenty.
We smile at one another
dissolving confusion, accepting differences.
Aberrant evil and conflicts are resolved
in courts.
We go about our lives
in peace.
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1069362989041533452003-11-20T13:16:00.000-08:002003-11-20T13:16:54.903-08:00"Banned from Argo" An example of a filk song
(there are a few variations in different versions)
by Leslie Fish
When we pulled into Argo in search of R & R
Our crew set out investigating every joint and bar
We had high expectations of their hospitality
But found too late it wasn't geared for spacers such as we
CHORUS:
And we're...banned from Argo, everyGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1065877850355763572003-10-11T06:10:00.000-07:002003-12-30T10:39:50.043-08:00A Better Poet Than President
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Oh my, lump in the bed
How I've missed you.
Roses are redder
Bluer am I
Seeing you kissed
by that charming French guy.
The dogs and the cat, they missed you too
Barney's still mad you dropped him, he ate your shoe
The distance, my dear, has been such a barrier
Next time you want an adventure, just land on a carrier.
Added - Dec 30, Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-1065877283225052762003-10-11T06:01:00.000-07:002003-10-11T06:01:23.366-07:00Bohemian Poet Samuel Menashe
Considering the significant recognition that he has received from other poets, he has remained remarkably unknown. "The public career of Samuel Menashe demonstrates how a serious poet of singular talent, power and originality can be largely overlooked in our literary culture," Mr. Gioia writes.
In his essay Mr. Gioia offers several reasons, especially the brevity ofGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2004111212003-06-11T02:19:00.000-07:002003-06-11T02:19:31.006-07:00Send Me to Glory in a Glad Bag
(Don and Mim Carson and Steve Mason)
People tell me that I ought to save my money
So that I could be laid away in style,
In a walnut box with all the fancy trimmin's
Vacuum sealed to keep me fresh a while.
cho. But Send me to Glory in a glad bag.
Don't waste a fancy coffin on my bones.
Just put me out on the curb next Tuesday
Let the sanitation Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2003550692003-05-28T17:32:00.000-07:002003-05-28T17:32:23.043-07:00Downloads of anti-war songs from onegoodmove: Anti-War Songs
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2003550622003-05-28T17:30:00.000-07:002003-05-28T17:30:23.740-07:00Self Evident
Ani di Franco
yes,
us people are just poems
we're 90% metaphor
with a leanness of meaning
approaching hyper-distillation
and once upon a time
we were moonshine
rushing down the throat of a giraffe
yes, rushing down the long hallway
despite what the p.a. announcement says
yes, rushing down the long stairs
with the whiskey of eternity
fermented and distilled
to eighteen minutes
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2003396272003-05-25T15:47:00.000-07:002003-05-25T15:47:17.790-07:00Putting Clothes Away
Lazy, I lie in bed and watch you bend
Over the drawer, knees apart, your dress
Barely reaching your thighs. I don’t intend
To take you from your work, just caress,
Lightly, your supple calf, but then my hand
Gets notions of its own and when you stop,
A little, noticing, moves on. You stand
Up half annoyed and half about to drop
Every stitch. My fingers undo folds
Of flesh Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2003377392003-05-24T19:29:00.000-07:002003-05-24T19:29:26.356-07:00All up and down
the different aspects of our society,
we had meaningful discussions.
Not only in
the Cabinet Room,
but prior to this
and after this day,
our secretaries,
respective secretaries,
will continue to interact
to create the conditions necessary
for prosperity to reign.
—George W. Bush, Washington, D.C., May 19, 2003
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2003377132003-05-24T19:15:00.000-07:002003-05-24T19:32:15.000-07:00The Poetry of Donald Rumsfeld and other political poems
The Unknown
As we know,
There are known knowns.
There are things we know we know.
We also know
There are known unknowns.
That is to say
We know there are some things
We do not know.
But there are also unknown unknowns,
The ones we don't know
We don't know.
—Feb. 12, 2002, Department of Defense news briefing
Glass Box
You know,Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2002247772003-04-30T17:33:00.000-07:002003-04-30T17:33:50.416-07:00Make the Pie Higher
I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen
And uncertainty
And potential mental losses.
Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the internet
Become more few?
How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.
I know that the human beingGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2002199582003-04-29T22:32:00.000-07:002003-04-29T22:33:34.000-07:00Ode to Those Lost At Sea
Bursting his gravity chains with a full-throat cry,
From his eeled grotto, lunatic, Neptune
Has flung his emerald arms into the sky.
I, afloat with Zephyrous a-billowing the cloth
Am flung into a no-man's land of spray
And crack and hoot amid roiling demons
That twitch our floundering vessel roundabout.
Then, just when that guest of spring winks in,
Helios, calming the Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2002026462003-04-26T03:16:00.000-07:002003-04-26T03:16:04.083-07:00'Middle Earth': Is This a Table? No, This Is a Poem
A NY Times review of Henri Cole's ''Middle Earth'', a book of poetry.
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2001450192003-04-14T08:57:00.000-07:002003-04-14T08:57:14.970-07:00Bird suddenly quiet
on his branch — his
Wife glancing at him.
Useless! Useless!
— heavy rain driving
into the sea.
Spring is coming
Yep, all that equipment
for sighs
Beautiful young girls running
up the library steps
with shorts on
The windmills
of Oklahoma look
in every direction.
Jack Kerouac, the poet of inordinate prose, was also a master of haiku, and a master, as always, at Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2001241162003-04-09T18:18:00.000-07:002003-04-14T08:51:39.000-07:00I am the Very Model of a Modern Unitarian
by Christopher Gist Raible
Sung to "I am the Very Model of a Modern Major General"
from "Pirates of Penzance".
I am the very model of a modern Unitarian,
Far broader than a Catholic, Hindu, Jew or Presbyterian.
I know the world's religions and can trace their roots historical
From Moses up to Channing, all in order categorical.
I'm very well Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2001204862003-04-09T07:12:00.000-07:002003-04-09T07:12:21.916-07:00Not all those who pass
In front of the Great Mother's chair
Get past with only a stare.
Some she looks at their hands
To see what sort of savages they were.
-- Gary Snyder
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2000967352003-04-04T06:45:00.000-08:002003-04-04T06:45:24.343-08:00(No Such Thing As) Girls Like That
The woman on the TV set
Is clutching both her great big breasts
And she sure looks like she is having fun
In purple plastic panties
She is writhing she is dancing
And it's plain to see she really turns her on
But this is MTV you know
And that is how the music goes
And all the male guitarists think she's great
They believe that girls like this
Actually do exist
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2000953482003-04-03T23:41:00.000-08:002003-04-03T23:41:41.326-08:00
Eventually
the words will come back and I'll
write haiku again
J.W. Abbott
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-2000425982003-03-25T07:01:00.000-08:002003-04-04T06:56:25.000-08:00 This ring no other, is made by the elves,
Who'd pawn their own mothers to grab it themselves
Ruler of creeper, mortal, and scallop,
This is a sleeper that packs quite a wallop.
The power almighty rests in this lone ring.
The power, alrighty, for doing your own thing.
If broken or busted, it cannot be remade.
If found , send to Sorhed ( the postage is prepaid)
'Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-908522512003-03-17T06:31:00.000-08:002003-03-17T06:31:26.980-08:00The Periodic Table of Haiku
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-905609252003-03-12T03:02:00.000-08:002003-03-12T14:07:21.000-08:00I am not going to touch "The Poo Song" at Studio8.net -- We Beat the Pants Off Other Comedy Sites and Then Wear Those Pants.
Listen here if you want.
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-904038182003-03-04T02:00:00.000-08:002003-03-04T02:13:28.000-08:00Optimism is
a learned virtue, rain passes,
fresher flowers grow.
me
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-904038092003-03-04T01:53:00.000-08:002003-03-04T01:53:00.173-08:00Artist: Tenacious D feat. Wyclef Jean
Song: I'm The Only Gay Eskimo
Rated: 9.6 (71 votes)
Also listed under
Artist: Corky And The Juice Pigs
Song: Eskimo
Rated: 8.8 (12 votes)
I'm the only gay eskimo
I'm the only one I know
I'm the only gay eskimo In my tribe.
I go out seal hunting with my best friend Tarka,
but all I want to do is get into his parka.
I'm the only gay eskimo in my tribe.
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-903938092003-03-01T13:25:00.000-08:002003-03-01T13:32:01.000-08:00THE GRINCH REVISITED
(with thanks to Dr. Seuss)
©2002 Doug Goodkin
The Whos down in Whoville liked this country a lot,
But the Grinch in the White House most certainly did not.
He didn't arrive there by the will of the Whos,
But stole the election that he really did lose.
Vowed to "rule from the middle," then installed his regime.
(Did this really happen or is it just a bad dream?)
He Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-903480822003-02-20T00:29:00.000-08:002003-02-20T00:29:07.460-08:00Adults Only
Tenacios D - F*ck her gently music video
Lyrics
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-903308182003-02-16T09:42:00.000-08:002003-02-16T09:50:44.000-08:00Mr. Cellophane from Chicago the musical
If someone stood up in a crowd
And raised his voice up way out loud
And waved his arm
And shook his leg
You'd notice him
If someone in a movie show
Yelled "fire in the second row,
This whole place is a powder keg!"
You'd notice him
And even without clucking like a hen
Everyone gets noticed, now and then,
Unless, of course, that personage Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-902919492003-02-07T09:17:00.000-08:002003-02-07T09:17:16.210-08:00Oh, Star Creator
Give us strength and booming guns
We will kill them all.
Neal Pollack's The Maelstrom Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-901297312003-01-01T02:42:00.000-08:002003-01-01T02:45:24.000-08:00Betrayed - from the play The Producers
Just like Cain and Abel
You pulled a sneak attack
I thought that we were brothers
Then you stabbed me in the back
Betrayed!
Oh boy, I'm so betrayed!
Like Samson and Delilah
Your love began to fade
I'm crying in the hoosegow
You're in Rio getting laid!
Betrayed!
Let's face it, I'm betrayed!
Boy, have I been taken
Oy, I'm so forsaken
I should have seen Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-901297212003-01-01T02:20:00.000-08:002003-01-01T02:20:07.936-08:00Love Power - from the movie The Producers
Love power. I'm talking about love power.
The power of a sweet flower is gonna rule the earth.
And there'll be a great rebirth.
Love is a flower that is fine.
When I'm walkin' with my darlin' and we're holding hands,
and life is fine, 'cause she understands.
'A walking down the sunny street
givin' pretty flowers to the people that we meet.
And I give aGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-901297182003-01-01T02:15:00.000-08:002003-01-01T02:20:51.000-08:00
Springtime for Hitler - original movie version
Germany was having trouble, what a sad, sad story
Needed a new leader to restore its former glory
Where, Oh where was he? Where could that man be?
We looked around and then we found
The man for you and me.
And now it's..
Springtime for Hitler and Germany
Deutschland is happy and gay
We're marching to a faster pace
Look out, here comes the master Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-900897462002-12-25T02:02:00.000-08:002003-02-07T09:48:54.000-08:00The Atlantic -- Can Poetry Matter?
It is time to experiment,
time to leave
the well-ordered but stuffy classroom,
time to restore
a vulgar vitality to poetry
and unleash
the energy now trapped
in the subculture.
There is nothing to lose.
Society has already told us
that
poetry is dead.
Let's build
a funeral pyre
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-900793852002-12-21T09:20:00.000-08:002002-12-21T09:31:59.000-08:00I have two books of Sappho's poetry but you can find a great deal of translations on the internet. Here are three of one poem, I had my own translation but it is locked in an email file I can't unlock.
Translation by Mary Barnard
He is more than a hero
He is a god in my eyes--
the man who is allowed
to sit beside you--he
who listens intimately
to the sweet murmur of
your voice, the Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-900662142002-12-18T02:51:00.000-08:002002-12-18T14:15:12.000-08:00Hero
Would you dance if I asked you to dance?
Would you run and never look back?
Would you cry if you saw me crying'?
Would you save my soul, tonight?
Would you tremble if I touched your lips?
Would you laugh?
Oh please tell me this
Now would you die for the one you love?
Hold me in your arms tonight.
I can be your hero, baby
I can kiss away your pain
I will stand by you forever
You can take Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-900661392002-12-18T01:59:00.000-08:002002-12-18T01:59:40.150-08:00If You're Happy And You Know It Bomb Iraq
If you cannot find Osama, bomb Iraq.
If the markets are a drama, bomb Iraq.
If the terrorists are Saudi,
And your alibi is shoddy,
And your tastes remain quite gaudy,
Bomb Iraq.
If you never were elected, bomb Iraq.
If your mood is quite dejected, bomb Iraq.
If you think that SUVs,
Are the best thing since sliced cheese,
And your father you must pleaseGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-900377472002-12-10T19:25:00.000-08:002002-12-10T19:25:00.656-08:00Email from a Female
Story Behind the Song
This song is about wanting to get a letter from a girl...not necessarily a "love letter" but any kind of departure from a testosterone-soaked computer industry career.
Email from a Female
(Verse 1:)
Write down all your feelings, baby
write down all your fears
I need a girls perspective
and it seems like its been years
write down any secret Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-900256642002-12-07T12:08:00.000-08:002002-12-18T14:21:19.000-08:00Cat Haikus
You never feed me.
Perhaps I'll sleep on your face.
That will sure show you.
You must scratch me there!
Yes, above my tail!
Behold, elevator butt.
The rule for today
Touch my tail, I shred your hand.
New rule tomorrow.
In deep sleep hear sound
cat vomit hairball somewhere
will find in morning.
Grace personified.
I leap into the window.
I meant to do that.
Blur of motionGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-900186842002-12-05T14:12:00.000-08:002002-12-06T10:45:56.000-08:00Sodomy
to the tune of Yesterday.
Sodomy.
I made love to you illegally.
The legislature wants to come and see
Then lock us up for sodomy.
Suddenly
I'm not half the man I used to be.
Justice Rehnquist said so on TV.
We have no right to privacy.
Where... did... Our rights go?
I don't know.They wouldn't say.
They say the laws are clear:
If you love queer,
It's not okay ay ay ay.
Yesterday
Love Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-900185962002-12-05T13:56:00.000-08:002002-12-07T12:18:42.000-08:00BBC NEWS -- Woolly writing creates new poetry
A North East writer has been given a grant of £2,000 to use sheep to create random poems, which also utilise the deepest workings of the universe.
The money has been provided by Northern Arts for Valerie Laws to create a new form of "random" literature.
Each of the animals has a word from a poem written on their backs and as they wander about Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-900112812002-12-03T22:52:00.000-08:002002-12-03T22:52:43.090-08:00 Tantalos
Mouth to mouth joined we lie, her naked breasts
Curved to my fingers, my fury grazing deep
On the silver plain of her throat,
And then: no more.
She denies me her bed. Half of her body to Love
She has given, half to Prudence.
I die between.
Paulus Silentiarius
Searching for Algernon
Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel
Hard eyes Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-855560512002-10-12T18:40:00.000-07:002002-10-12T18:40:46.340-07:00Loving UU and Mexico
I love you more than enchiladas
I love the way you
cheese tostadas
I love you more than
purty flowerz
I love the way you
fill my hourz.
I love you more than mellow Baez
I love the way you maketh sighez.
Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-855448382002-10-09T14:50:00.000-07:002002-10-09T14:50:30.506-07:00Annabel Lee
IT was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee.
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-3855178662002-10-02T17:38:00.000-07:002002-10-02T17:38:44.533-07:00Sylvia Plath
From Lady Lazurus
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-855007412002-09-27T17:05:00.000-07:002002-09-27T17:05:52.270-07:00Your tongue talks against
my skin; my wishes tangle
up in your rough touch.
From Tim PrattGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-3855007392002-09-27T17:04:00.000-07:002002-09-27T17:04:51.193-07:00I'm missing you Pat,
so practical, so sleeping,
but I miss your skin.
- meGaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3817173.post-855007292002-09-27T16:57:00.000-07:002002-09-27T16:57:53.023-07:00Started Poetry Blog as they don't fit elsewhere.Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17414725749450659875noreply@blogger.com