(12/6/2005 4:42:00 PM)
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hey i'm really new. check my stuff tellme what ya think!
(11/6/2005 8:08:00 PM)
Sculptures of Pleasure
By Wolf Larsen
She looked at me, but there were eyes all over your tongue and your mouth became the new york subway system, she knew I lived in the planet of graveyards, that’s when I shot myself, the surrealists were digging graves, the cubists were re-inventing cities into seas of angles that ate your body, the impressionists were looking for the third rail and then decided to eat buildings, she knew I lived in a twisting spiraling building with 5-foot censored growing out of the walls, I tried to talk to her but construction workers kept erecting walls between us until my censored started growing with carcasses, that’s when all the unstable eyes begin to perverse my brain and a river of fragmented damaged people were devouring subway tracks until your skin started to crack open and paintings leaked out of your corpse until you mind became a volcano of poetry, that’s why everyone tied nooses around their necks and started jumping, otherwise there wouldn’t be happiness, you slid your ---censored----- until he smiled, florescent lava drips from all our procreations until our withered corpses lay in caskets, gravestones are sculptures of pleasure
Copyright ã 2004 by Wolf Larsen. All Rights Reserved.
This is just one of many poems in the poetry book Eulogy for the Human Race. Check out other poems from Eulogy for the Human Race at http: //www.secretwebsites.com/English_poetry_book.htm
You may now buy Eulogy for the Human Race at Amazon.com or other online book retailers.
Wolf Larsen is an adventurer, novelist, playwright, and poet. He has traveled through 45 countries in Latin America, Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. To pay for his travels Wolf worked as a seasonal laborer in Alaska. Wolf has lived in Chicago, Wisconsin, New York City, Ecuador, Honduras, Brazil, and Peru. Wolf has written four novels, six collections of poetry, a play, and a screenplay. His two autobiographical novels are Unalaska, Alaska and Travel Around the World? Why Not? !
(10/10/2005 6:29:00 PM)
Freeform Poetry is constricting to the imagination because it tends to prevent the writer looking beyond what has been written and refining it. (Now retiring to my nuclear shelter)
(9/25/2005 1:35:00 AM)
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It was then a few days before. I was out from my room at that night looking at sky gave me a touch of the nature. I was moved by the spraying light of the moon and compelled to converge my experiences but how I did it? Is that good one or not: Look at the poem below that I put on the paper and without amendment I am presenting it here:
In the dark cold night
The sky is full of golden rays
Who can tell the truth behind the silence?
What is the mystery of the cat walk?
Which the silently gazing rays
The fairy of universe is exposing
To the little naked eye
The still mode of the world
Looks so beautiful at that moment
No one to talk even a word or two
Files shut and closed mouths
Let the eyes to stare at the beauty queen
This protocol of nature
Gives her charms of limitless moments
It is too early to go to bed
For tonight is like the blessing of nature
This untouched moment is so steady
That the trees are whispering
The stars are hiding their faces
From being burnt to ashes
By the flames of rising fire
From the mouth of queen of solitude
(8/15/2005 4:42:00 PM)
I agree with Raynette, in that poetry is art. As poets, we use words as our colors to create our illusions. Where I differ, is in respect to raw emotion sufficing. Look at the works of e e cummings. Though Harvard educated, he played with the proper placement of words, used verbs as nouns, etc. What shows through in his work is his raw emotion, that is what made it all work.
(7/17/2005 3:58:00 AM)
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Rilke, Hardy and Me...some freeform.....Ron Price, Tasmania
THIS IS NOT AN ARRIVING
Love is...a high inducement to the individual to ripen...it is an exacting claim on him...love is burden and apprenticeship....(not) light and frivolous play...something new enters us in our sadnesses...the future enters into us this way in order to transform itself in us; therefore, be lonely and attentive when you are sad. In this way, destiny goes forth from within people, not from without into them. -Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, W.W. Norton, NY, pp.54-65.
Go into yourself and cleanse.
The list is long and will keep
you busy with its regularity
and it must be done
or your house, your home,
will not enjoy effulgent glories,
infinite and unseen grace,
divine knowledge or immortality.
What is this cleansing? A scouring
of your memory and imagination
of what is idle in the talking department
and what you hear
on that internal telephone receiver.
Accept your aloneness here,
your trust in God
and your holding to him
and try to do what you know
you should do-simple, that simple.
Can you hear the tremulous after-ring
of memory clarifying the message
of all that is unclear, undefined,
unknown, pointing toward a fate, a destiny,
like a wide, wonderful web that is finally
threading your life with its tender hand
and binding you with a million
infinitely fine lines, to focus you
like some precisioned instrument,
ready now, although often bloody
in the exchange? But you clean it off:
the bright red imaginings,
hot with heart’s intensity;
washing worldly affections,
clean and smooth with flowing water
from the tap of your mind.
Can you clear your eyes of all those
perceptual confusions, sadnesses,
that make you feel
so very useless and inadequate?
All is gestation and bringing forth,
pregnant with pain and soon-to-be-born,
hopes for the future; all is waiting
with deep humility and patience
for developing clarity, ripening,
waiting for the sap: no forcing here.
It will come. It will come.
This is not an arriving;
and love the difficult, the unsolved,
as you grow in and through them.
Use experience, here and now,
to rally toward exalted moments later,
toward the cleansing, the grace,
the quaffing of wisdom, the emptying out.
Life must be seen as difficult, serious
and approached with reverence:
not all this lightness, frivolity,
endless playing. Creative thoughts
come from many thousands of nights
and days of love and striving, endlessly:
filling thoughts with sublimity and exaltation.
The surface is so often bewildering;
go to the depths where meaning unfolds
like the petals of roses, a jacaranda
at last will be in bloom. Everyday
is a new beginning as we suck
the sweetness out of the trivial,
the profound and the funny;
while Thy servants who have gone,
work through us as part of our destiny,
as predisposition, as pulsation, gesture
rising out of the depths of time,
helping us hold to what is difficult.
FRESH CENTRE OF RICHNESS
I have a faculty...for burying an emotion in my heart or brain for forty years, and exhuming it at the end of that time as fresh as when interred.
-Thomas Hardy, Notebooks, in The World of Poetry: Poets and Critics on the Art and Functions of Poetry, Clive Sansom, selector, Phoenix House, London,1959, p.26.
Some would say that’s not a good idea, Thomas;
confusing burying with repressing is understandable.
For me burying is an unconscious process
associated with memory, so that remembering
is like creating something anew,
not always mind you, experiencing it
for the first time, again and again.
If I have any gift as a poet it is this
and it extends from strong experiences
to minute observations. This is the fresh centre
of richness which feeds imagination,
feeds the present with charged particles,
with blood and bone, with glance and gesture
and the poem rises and goes forth like a phoenix
from ashes where emotion lies burried,
exhumed fresh and tasted as if in some other world
by some other me, as if for the first time.
17 September 1995
14 October 1995
(7/15/2005 4:35:00 PM)
Hey I'm brand new to this site and most of what I write is freeform. I'm looking for and would greatly appreciate some ideas, thoughts, comments, etc. so that I can develop and grow. I only have a few poems up right now but I will add more when I get a few minutes.
(6/21/2005 6:36:00 AM)
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You see it all the time I suppose. All of us newbies, declaring our newness. Asking for a bit of attention. I must be so self absorbed that I need your approval. Well, I guess I do then. My sister is the English major, not I. She seems to think that I should persue writing, but all that ever comes out of me seems childish and simple. I need to know if this is something that I should abandon. I don't want to waste anyone's time, and so will post only one, in hopes that I lure you willingly to read the others. Of course, if you don't like the first, I probably won't be getting any visitors any time soon. Please, if you have a moment, I would greatly appreciate your (anyone's) input.
(6/12/2005 12:43:00 AM)
I am new to this site and looking forward to developing a better understanding of myself and the world around me through poetry. While I do not consider myself a good writer or even a good poet some of my professors and friends have suggested that I have an innate talent for the written word. So after many years of procrastination, I am attempting to explore the idea that I possibly may have some sort of natural ability, and should therefore develop it.
That said, it has been years since I have actively studied litertature, grammer, anything to do with writing or the written word. I am a film tech who specializes in digital restorations of photos, film scanning, and other photo related tasks. So if I'm not in front of a computer all day I'm either behind a camera shooting headshots for friends or just lounging around doing what I do best...nothing. Well, maybe not exactly nothing but many people do not consider playing video games a very productive way to spend time.
To be perfectly honest, I hate writing. I am extremely lazy and if there is an easy way to accomplish something, that is usually the way for me. But sometimes I am compelled to write. So I am here to understand why and to explore the possiblity that maybe I am suppose to write (which seems very dreadful and requires a strong sense of determination and drive) .
Hopefully I have not driven anyone to boredom by this post but I felt compelled to present a small snapshot of myself and who I am. Now that I have done so here are two of the poets that I am currently reading: Pablo Neruda - 100 Love Sonnets, Odes to Opposites, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
Yusef Komunyakaa - Dien Cai Dau, Copacetic, and Neon Vernacular
I am beginning my journey here (freeform best describes how I write) but I am interested in learning what it takes to write Sonnets and Haiku. If anyone has any suggestions on these two forms or know of some excellent contemporary poets that excell in these fields I would love to open a correspondence.
Looking forward to reading and hearing from anyone here. Thatnks for your time.
(5/31/2005 8:18:00 AM)
And losing hair.
My toothbrush slowly dies.