(7/18/2007 5:48:00 PM)
Sometimes, I go out of my way
Or push to far over the line
Some days I can't find the words to say
What I want can never be mine
Things are just not the way
They used to be
It's so hard accepting reality
Thoughts are reeling in my head, I can't explain
The way I'm feeling is mentally deranged
though I've pryed your hooks from my lifeless skin
It tears me up to hear you pleading
Let me in again
Let me in just one more time
Face value equals nothing at all
In the blink of an eye
You can take the fall
I'm chasing a memory
Would be better off if I could let it be
Thoughts keep comin to my head
I'm chasing a memory
We're living life as if anyone cared
We are born as one
We bleed the same
Though the song remains unfinished
You hear the cries
You hear the screams
Try to shake it out of your head
As if never unseen
This is a puzzle
Never find the missing piece from me
(6/24/2007 6:41:00 PM)
The body breaks,
and falls to peices in the tide
it never seems like you have enough time
but the days seem to go
on and on and on...
....thats a little bit of a poem i wrote, would that be considered free form? i would love opinions on my poery, i'm just starting out and i don't really have alot of expeirience........ thank you: ]
(6/19/2007 12:36:00 PM)
In all of his writing, Glassco travels with his gaze in 'the rear-vision mirror, ...' For Glassco, who conversed with Catullus, Samuel Daniel, Berkely, Thomas Love Peacock, and Baudelaire, to name only a few of his venerable companions, the past is not a complete stranger. For Glassco, home is where the mind has been. And his had been to many places. He presently recalls in A Point of Sky (1964) :
From here the only way is turning back
To join the links of casual circles leading
Home, or somewhere else I have been before.
Like other travellers before him, he goes forward à reculons. He takes home with him wherever he goes.
Memory provides reflections, not warm bodies. The past still lives, though now by similitude only, as names and images in the mind. Glassco addresses himself in The Deficit Made Flesh (1958) — it is all the poet can do. His work is to harrow up 'a new-made ghost, ' a moving image of the dead life. Past and present, image and object, expression and thought are but analogies of each other. Between them, there is a silence, a great distance, since similitude is not identity:
And as what they are for me, here and now,
As the translated pegs and props, characters
In the fable of being — infinitely
Remote: I mean, daffodils in a vase,
Sail on the water, sunlight on the grass.
('Hail and Farewell')
Such is the tension, 'the darkness and the distance, ' which all translators must experience — between speech and silence, signifier and signified. It is on this middle ground that Glassco's translation of his own vision and that of other poets come together. As a maker of elegiac word-analogies 'caught / Between silence and the failure of any words, ' Glassco was ideally suited to the invaluable, futile, and costly craft of literary translation. The following words, as justly as they can, will suggest that he practised that craft with courage and skill, with a success proportionate to the silence and distance he came to evoke and diminish.
from Compass of the Catoptric Past: John Glassco, Translator
by Camille R. La Bossière
(6/13/2007 8:22:00 AM)
hi everyone, i would like to thank those who have spent their valuable time reading my poems. i hope those who have not will stop by my page and read some of my poems. your comments are very much appreciated! ! ! Thanks everyone and have a beautiful, wonderful and nice day! ! !
(6/6/2007 2:05:00 AM)
footnote to Bernstein's 'Dysraphism'
Dominion demands distraction-the circus
ponies of the slaughter home. Braced
by harmony, bludgeoned by decoration
the dream surgeon hobbles three steps over, two
steps beside. “In those days you didn't have to
shout to come off as expressive.” One by one
the clay feet are sanded, the sorrows remanded.
A fleet of ferries, forever merry.*
Show folks know that what the fighting man wants
is to win the war and come home.
Bernstein's 'Dysraphism' has a footnote teasing out etymological connections between this abstruse medical term meaning a kind of birth defect - literally a 'mis-seaming' - and the prosodic stringing (stitching) of words: 'disturbance of stress, pitch, and rhythm of speech.' The textual seaming and mis-seaming (seeming and mis-seeming?) concludes with these lines.
A series of characteristically short, direct, discrete statements, unconnected by conjunctions of subordinate clauses, are stitched together less by discursive sense than by verbal repetition (seaming) and counterpoint (mis-seaming) .
- English 88, Modern & Contemporary American Poetry
(5/8/2007 2:23:00 AM)
Those People are innocent
Those people are black,
And their hands, eyes, hair
What they hold
What they eat
Either what they don’t eat
Those people are slaves,
And their tongues, lands, spouses
Everything they own
And their children too
Even their future
Those people are innocent
Their laughs, looks, feelings
Their faces so pure as their hearts
They are innocent, black slaves
(4/28/2007 3:49:00 AM)
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This is called 'Freeform Workshop'. What I figured I'd see was suggestions/assignments/challenges and poetic exercises. Not quite getting that so I'll start a challenge for anyone willing to pick up.
1) Write down five incomplete phrases of between four to six words each. They don't have to be the first ones that come to mind, but you shouldn't take more than ten minutes. By 'incomplete' I mean that the phrase cannot form a complete idea or sentence.
2) Once you've chosen the five phrases, you can begin writing the poem. All five phrases must be included in the poem.
3) Once you have written a word, that word cannot be edited or deleted (exceptions are mistakes in punctuation and typos) . But you cannot go back and change a word, nor can you go back and add words.
4) Same goes for individual lines. Once they have been written, they cannot be deleted, moved, or changed in any way. Once two consecutive lines have been written, you cannot go back to add anything between them.
There's a peculiar form of Japanese fine art where, once the artist applies the brush to canvas, they cannot go back and change because the act of lifting and moving the brush back damages the canvas. I do this once in a while after I've edited a poem into oblivion. When Miles Davis Quintet was recording 'Kind Of Blue' Miles'd come in with these barely sketched out phrases and he'd ask the band to play and improvise, keep going and see what they could come up with.
(4/23/2007 10:17:00 PM)
I wish could see your eyes and your smile everyday,
I wish I could hear you laugh everyday,
I wish I could feel your arms around mine everyday,
I wish I could talk to you everyday,
I wish I could smell your sweet smell everyday,
I wish that that would happen everyday.
I hope I’ll see you tomorrow,
I hope I’ll see you next week,
I hope I’ll see you next month,
I hope I’ll see you next year,
I hope I’ll see you in a decade,
I hope I’ll see you in a century,
I hope I’ll see you everyday.
I’m afraid that my wishes won’t come true,
I’m afraid I won’t see you,
Or hear you,
Or feel you,
Or talk to you,
Or smell you,
I’m afraid I won’t ever see you again.
Then I realize,
It’s up to you,
You can smile,
You can laugh,
You can put your arms around mine,
You can walk up to me and talk,
And it’s up to me to decide if I want to see you,
I can come by tomorrow,
Or come see you next week,
Or come by next month,
Or come by next year,
Or see you in a decade,
Or even see you in a century,
It’s up to me and you,
And I want to see you forever!
(4/6/2007 5:07:00 PM)
Would you read poems by me? i would greatly appreciate it.
(4/5/2007 12:17:00 AM)
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I'm in a canopy
Of lonely rhymes
But every word
Seems so absurd
In every way...
This is the beginning to one of my poems, if you like it please contact me, I'm kinda new and I don't really know anyone
Comment of the Day
It is cold, everywhere.
The kind of cold many look forward to;
an occasion to don their warm fashions,