Poetics and Poetry Discussion


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  • Michael Shepherd (8/30/2005 8:24:00 AM) Post reply

    , , , and before you compete shamelessly for the Halloween Horror Poem Contest, so appropriate for this site... please prioritise, you gentle guys, that unprized but so Sweet surprise?

  • Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler (8/30/2005 6:46:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    thanks to all of the Hunters who participated. i think this corpse turned out really well. i had a good time organizing it. in the original post, i formatted the poem a bit to preserve continuity and make it easier to read. here is the Corpse again with each stanza credited to its author. Outstanding Job, Everybody!

    I know that face! She sat across the room
    in algebra. She never spoke. I used to turn
    around to ogle at her breasts.
    I never even knew that she wrote poetry,
    Or lived a hundred fifty years ago.

    (Max Reif)

    Announcing love swept up and other stuff we'll never need
    Emily Dickinson I want you to know I once startled highstreet revellers
    And also their pizza boxes, whilst wearing nothing but a pair of socks.
    Hope is the thing with feathers that perches on the soul, you said.
    Now do you doubt your Bird is true?

    (Adam Reynolds)

    Paned thoughts, stricken from your murals
    To bind your broadcloth breasts in pearls
    Punctuation no longer yours
    And lines re-worked for simpler shores
    Because you would not stop for death?

    (t.h. ashbury)

    Every gentle breath is followed
    by delicious quivers of pearl-white flesh
    above a modest bodice covering treasures
    satin-smooth, shivering, and soft enough
    with promise to sustain a lust-filled head.

    (Raynette Eitel)

    Oh, what combustible thoughts of Thomas’ hands on an
    uninhibited body – her body
    He, famished for the unleashed passion of a woman
    socially kempt for far too long, but cognizant of her
    fragility, coaxing her, coaxing her out of her rigidity, freeing her from

    (Sherrie Gonzales Kolb)

    the corset she knots herself each morning,
    moving the hand mirror until she can see
    the top of her head, which prickles & opens, letting
    in starlight whenever she reads a perfect poem.

    (Poetry Snob)

    And the moon stands by, her own yellow hunk of cheddar,
    watching words of sadness and love rise from the heather,
    only to drift away and be lost forever now.
    Leaving her, flushed and covered in the rouge of virginity
    with the longing of her childhood's treasured and wordless dreams.

    (Herbert Nehrlich)

    The longing was endless
    Together she was a dream for many
    Even though her life so sheltered
    Never left her wanting anything
    Just something so far out of reach

    (Mahnaz Zardoust-Ahari)

    But not so far that I cannot sail on her bay,
    And trace the punctuation of dashes downward
    To an unread manuscript so pungent
    Lurking there like circumference
    And I dream of the key to her father's house.

    (Poetry Hound)

    Replies for this message:
    • Poetry Hound (8/30/2005 7:31:00 AM) Post reply

      How interesting to see who's who. The one that surprises me the most is Adam Reynold's. His very literal contribution is so different from his poems, which are so atmospheric and wrapped in metaphor.

  • Michael Shepherd (8/30/2005 5:49:00 AM) Post reply

    Guys, I've just cruised like a missile thorugh Aaron Sweet's 66 poems to date, which are largely without comment - and despite his poem 'A Plague Upon Your Vaunting'(blush) I consider he might be a candidate for our most c.o.n.s.t.r.u.c.t.i.v.e. comments. A number of his poems are slight, but not without 'one-glance' thought. And Matthew, if you've taken your mind out of its cast, you can join in too.. remember, a report is always a report on the reporter too...
    At least it may indicate to Aaron whether it's worth staying with this nest of vipers? How about it, now you've handled Emily's breasts so glovingly?

  • Allan James Saywell (8/30/2005 5:16:00 AM) Post reply

    well Lamont why dont you write some poetry and you really are not dead

  • Shelley B. Keats (8/29/2005 10:51:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I am convinced that the best thing going on this site is the Hepner gang (Gershon, Linda and Jessica) . Give them a read- and no, I am not a Hepner.

    Replies for this message:
  • Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler (8/29/2005 2:13:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    and without further adieu, fellow Hunters & Peckers, i unveil the Second Corpse!

    EMILY DICKENSON'S BREASTS

    I know that face! She sat across the room
    in algebra. She never spoke. I used to turn
    around to ogle at her breasts.
    I never even knew that she wrote poetry,
    Or lived a hundred fifty years ago.
    Announcing love swept up and other stuff we'll never need
    Emily Dickinson I want you to know I once startled highstreet revellers
    And also their pizza boxes, whilst wearing nothing but a pair of socks.
    Hope is the thing with feathers that perches on the soul, you said.
    Now do you doubt your Bird is true?

    Paned thoughts, stricken from your murals
    To bind your broadcloth breasts in pearls
    Punctuation no longer yours
    And lines re-worked for simpler shores
    Because you would not stop for death?

    Every gentle breath is followed
    by delicious quivers of pearl-white flesh
    above a modest bodice covering treasures
    satin-smooth, shivering, and soft enough
    with promise to sustain a lust-filled head.
    Oh, what combustible thoughts of Thomas’ hands on an
    uninhibited body – her body

    He, famished for the unleashed passion of a woman
    socially kempt for far too long, but cognizant of her
    fragility, coaxing her, coaxing her out of her rigidity, freeing her from
    the corset she knots herself each morning,
    moving the hand mirror until she can see
    the top of her head, which prickles & opens, letting
    in starlight whenever she reads a perfect poem.

    And the moon stands by, her own yellow hunk of cheddar,
    watching words of sadness and love rise from the heather,
    only to drift away and be lost forever now.
    Leaving her, flushed and covered in the rouge of virginity
    with the longing of her childhood's treasured and wordless dreams.
    The longing was endless
    Together she was a dream for many
    Even though her life so sheltered
    Never left her wanting anything
    Just something so far out of reach

    But not so far that I cannot sail on her bay,
    And trace the punctuation of dashes downward
    To an unread manuscript so pungent
    Lurking there like circumference
    And I dream of the key to her father's house.

    Replies for this message:
    • Herbert Nehrlich1 (8/29/2005 5:10:00 PM) Post reply

      What spellmaster slipped in an 'e' inplace of the 'i'. Is it supposed to draw attention to the actual shape of the two objects? I thought the 'i' at least has a dot as do mammaries. The Nitpicker

    • Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler (8/29/2005 2:37:00 PM) Post reply

      i'll be posting the credits tomorrow so you'll know who wrote what.


    To read all of 3 replies click here
  • Michael Shepherd (8/28/2005 6:00:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    t.h. - as you gather, we are genuinely interested in your poetic welfare... in view of this, do you want to say anything more about your work after our response - not in terms of 'blush' or gee thanks guys etc, but for instance, why you should ask? No obligation...

    Replies for this message:

    To read all of 1 replies click here
  • Michael Shepherd (8/27/2005 6:56:00 AM) Post reply

    This is the gist of what I said in response to t.h.:

    t.h. (surely an admirer of k.d.?) - Do you need to? When did you not dare...?

    You have garnered more heartfelt praise from fellow poets on this site, in your short time with us, than any. Your range of reference and inmagery is quite exceptional; and though, as you know already, I'm too literal-minded to necklace together all your images, I know that (as rarely) it's worth the effort. I think, imho, that your potential is greater than any of the younger (!) poets on this site.

    I would suggest that now you expose your poems to the finest poetic (rather than critical - they might be jealous) judgment - wherever that may be; others may have their own advice. Perhaps best would be to submit your poems to a celebrated poet whom you admire.

    You will make (have made?) a great defence lawyer (better than prosecuting, for a poet...): but don't take on too many hardened felons - it ultimately affects your own speech. But you may surmount this.

    I can't believe you doubt your own talent. But if you would like some more specific critique, there are those here who would be better equipped for this than I.

    As dear Gert would say - best wishes are best wishes if they are wishes, and the best, and if not, why not?

    Michael, with apologies for a reheated dish of admiration...

  • t. h. ashbury (8/26/2005 7:44:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    do i dare, request, a critique? (what the hell)

    Replies for this message:

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  • allan james saywell (8/26/2005 7:31:00 PM) Post reply

    good evening cartwheels and pieced custard pies part time critics and
    poetry teachers and fellow poets and poets who aspire to be a poet but
    are finding it impossible how are yahall all your
    yes i watch movies about the deep south i have been delivered just arrived back
    from a trip down the tweed river, with my pet dog snuff, no where not english
    what a great Country i live in just thought i'd tell you i have another poem
    on site now, i'll whisper so that young fellow doesn't hear you know who i mean
    the young man with a dirty custard critical mouth, anyway enjoy

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