Vincent James Turner
(4/24/2008 10:34:00 AM)
As One Would A Loved Pet
Put me down like a dog I’ve got a family who’ll pay.
Place me gently on the table; let me go my own way.
Dogs and cats have rights far greater than I
They can piss in the street; loved ones help them to die?
My own furry friend crippled by a drunk driver
Crushed his hind legs, squashed his little liver.
All I want is a nice leggy nurse to stroke my brow
And if I had one, I’d want her to tenderly hold my tail
There is a fly it darts in and out of my open window
Winter is approaching; I wonder who will be first to go
Piss smells bad, death and disinfectant is far worse
Just as destroying is the smiling hyperactive nurse
She handles my parts as though they were her own
Pulling back skin, cleaning my cracks with hands that roam
Over this limp pale body, confined to a stiff white bed
Whilst she sighs sympathetically cooling my head
Forget the care; this horse has been long flogged
Just give to me what you’d give to your Dog.
An end to the suffering, terminate the black within
A simple swift needle then let the end begin.
(4/20/2008 3:15:00 PM)
I walk the path of notice,
in which looking for meaning.
walls all around me,
have trapped me since the beginning.
And when I realize the glinting eyes,
my soul sobs and oceans arise.
(4/19/2008 5:41:00 PM)
When I was at school and college I was encouraged to 'skim read' for efficiency to get through lots of books (for exams.) . Frankly I did NOT develop this skill very much. Indeed my reading speed was slower than the slowest on the scale (yet full marks for 'comprehension') . Could never stop reading with my 'Inner Voice'. Now then, the experts say 'reading aloud' like this is actually 'Vocalisation'. Yet I can use this 'voice' to read in any way: to sound like any actor or actress etc., or to sing or play music. Can reproduce any sound I can remember. Surely much more than 'vocalising'. Maybe we should all stop skimming and make full use of our inward voices. The 'voice' in poetry is most important.
(4/18/2008 6:48:00 PM)
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what do you think of my poem?
The light taping of the snow above
She awakes to a blurry vision
A soft smile to the binding warmth
And looks out to the frosty adhesion.
Through the raging silent winds
Each breath the white world bloom
Slowly the snow will settle
And start again to the audience of the moon.
Appear in a distance a shroud of cold
Stepping into a windy clearing
The shredding ice bashing about
Small life struggles in its bearing.
Strangled by the grip of moisture
The frail stem strive to hold
As leaves and petals in fear they flutter
Rolling gusts diminishes its mourn.
And then the earth fell, twisting and turning
A moment gone, a darkened face
The feeling of calmness and security
No longer moving but moving with haste
The white lily linger at the window sill
Dripping leaves tears of gratitude it weeps
Both hearts beating, she sighs
Snuggled in covers back into sleep.
by william luo
(4/16/2008 5:43:00 PM)
Ever want someone to banter around poetic messages upon the faults of our world with? I'd be happy tho philosophize with someone if you feel up for it.
(4/16/2008 2:14:00 PM)
Check my prose poems. Leave egregious comments. This is spam.
Margualette van der Merwe
(4/15/2008 2:22:00 AM)
Hey could you maybe read my poems and tell me where i can do better. I would love to write better. I seem to be struggling for a while now and maybe its the way i write or something. Thanks
(4/10/2008 6:04:00 AM)
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can someone tell me if i'm doing the right kind of thing? ?
Tired of Being Exploited
(4/2/2008 12:42:00 PM)
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Pure poetry is not the decoration of a preconceived and clearly defined matter: it springs from the creative impulse of a vague imaginative mass pressing for development and definition. If the poet already knew exactly what he meant to say, why should he write the poem? The poem would in fact already be written. For only its completion can reveal, even to him, exactly what he wanted. When he began and while he was at work, he did not possess his meaning; it possessed him. It was not a fully formed soul asking for a body: it was an inchoate soul in the inchoate body of perhaps two or three vague ideas and a few scattered phrases. The growing of this body into its full stature and perfect shape was the same thing as the gradual self-definition of the meaning. And this is the reason why such poems strike us as creations, not manufactures, and have the magical effect which mere decoration cannot produce. This is also the reason why, if we insist on asking for the meaning of such a poem, we can only be answered 'It means itself.'
-from 'Poetry for Poetry's Sake' - Oxford Lecture c.1901, by A.C. Bradley
(4/1/2008 4:52:00 PM)
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I'm a search light soul they say -
But I can't see it in the night,
I'm only faking when I get it right
Cause I fell on black days.