Poetics and Poetry Discussion
(4/6/2005 4:33:00 AM)
Can anyone identify who that picture is really of, that is posted next to the Biography of R.C Abbekka? ? I mean, it's not really him is it?
(4/5/2005 10:16:00 PM)
I had a dream a while ago. Though, it must be stated that I was not asleep.
Let me tell you about it. It was a dream of hope, of promise and of -peace.
Mostly of peace.
There was a scrawny boy named Saul who sounded a bit out of it, looked a bit unwashed yet wasn't bothered by it too much.
One day, Saul decided that he was bored. Bored to the point where it itched at first and later progressed to outright pain.
So, with limited choices available, he went through the immediate neighbourhood, looking for things to do that would relieve his boredom and bring some long-overdue excitement.
So he shat all over the property of others, leaving substantial and smelly deposits everywhere he thought they would look good and attract attention.
He then shouted at the residents the moment he spotted them behind their drapes
of innocence, showering them with the foulest language imaginable.
He made some enemies of course but he also attracted some 'friends', the type of friend who dwell on the misery of others and who feel that a morbid fascination with the 'unusual' was the thing to have.
Since he regularly ran out of substance to deposit he returned to the scenes of his crimes again and again, always attracting a few more friends and enemies.
Well, after a while it got boring, so he concenbtrated on the game of throwing pebbles at windows, hitting a few and causing ever repeating commotions. He would hide in the dark and thus avoid detection. Some of his friends decided that they wanted to impress Saul, so they started coming on these outings with him. They loved throwing these pebbles so much that, when they ran out of pebbles they used turds.
And what a game it was!
And then, something happened. My memory is unclear but here is how it progressed:
On a Saturday morning, Saul went to all the places he had 'honoured' and surveyed the damage.
All the excrement was still there and they still smelled.
So Saul went to the Hardware store for supplies. He bought brushes, sponges, buckets, mops, brooms and disinfectant. Then he spent as much time as it took to clean up his little world.
And on Sunday morning, he stood back and said to himself: 'Yes'. And he felt good, and clean of soul and spirit. And then it occurred to him that there might be a place in this world for him after all.
And then he wondered about that.
And he thought that maybe, these people would want him to say a few words but then he decided against it, knowing that he might say the wrong thing. 'Let my deeds speak for themselves', he said and that was what he decided in the end.
And that was the end of the dream. Will keep you posted if there are sequels.
(4/5/2005 9:11:00 PM)
I think you may have missed something I said.
(4/5/2005 10:55:00 AM)
Is it possible to write a poem backwards? ! ! I don't mean write it straight and then switch, I mean write it in a way that you imagine each line to begin with its ending... now THAT's strange.. smile.. I will try, but I'm not sure.. Sx
(4/5/2005 8:27:00 AM)
Sherrie, your words are appreciated but I am afraid you are assessing the situation incorrectly.
If management of this site allows the last remark of him to go unpunished I will have lost all faith in them.
And if no one objects to a message like that to appear here, where we ought to be discussing poetry, then I will know what to think of the caliber of our membership.
It is not so much that I am personally involved, having been made a target because I stood up for a friend, I would not sit idly by if anyone else were being attacked like this.
If it is acceptable to say what England said today then the world is indeed a pretty sad place.
(4/5/2005 6:36:00 AM)
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Excuse me lady’s and gentlemen, I apologise for butting in like this but I just wanted to make a very small point that I hope will be helpful to everyone. I just posted a new poem without first checking if the title I had chosen for it was unique. I posted my poem entitled “No Words” (and no this is not a plug) but after doing a search for that very title, discovered that there were about ten other poems listed as the same! ! Just thought this was a good point to bring up for everyone or do you all check first? ?
I have changed the title of my new poem and no, I am not going to tell you what to. Ha, ha. You’ll have to guess J
Love, kindness and Peace on Australia Earth
(4/5/2005 6:11:00 AM)
It will be very interesting (if not downright educational) to see how the membership of P/H will react to the new behaviour of Paul England. If taking a look at even his latest personal message (in the open column under a poet's work) does not entice you to send a note to management or make a public comment then I rest my case.
Do we really need filth like this around on this site? Do expressions like shitbrick etc improve our climate?
I wonder if someone will have the spine to stand up and be counted.
This is a great site by comparison but if we sit back and allow those from the very lowest spot on the roots of the totem pole (they are anchored in the sewer)
to hang around then perhaps we deserve what we get.
(4/5/2005 3:49:00 AM)
But those were real humans!
Is Dallas being shown in China?
(4/4/2005 11:46:00 PM)
I'm sorry I'm a bit late...but may I offer this humble piece for the rhyme challenge...
The Woman From Crete
Yes, indeed. I knew of that young woman, she was from the Isle of Crete.
Or so that’s what she told you if you and she should happen to meet.
Her captivating charms held most men at her very feet.
Always so properly dressed she flashed her wit so very cutesy and neat
Her smile so perfectly white but for that gold front tooth of soldered sheet.
She daily left a twinkle and a wink on most she knew on her street,
Except, that is, for those ladies who had suspicions of her true beat.
Even I admit there was something intangible about this lady of Greek
But, well, C’est la vie in her flirtatious effort to remain daintily discreet.
But one, dark night I witnessed her secret she thought was hers to keep.
I was just exiting the Third Street Bar, they had a 2A.M. closing to meet.
The back streets would be my shortcut home on my walking feet.
In a car a young man and a black clad gal were cozying in the back seat
They began unclothing, dropping what was covering them to their feet.
When suddenly, from nowhere, a police car rushed up to them in a streak.
The car doors flew open and the young man was busted into police keep.
From the arrested car I then saw the woman make her slow, deliberate leap
Into the awaiting pats on her back from the police known as ‘the heat’.
As she showed her I. D. badge to her fellow officers for their report sheet
I heard one of them say to her, “Thank you again for your well-done feat.”
So. This had been…a sting. A young man, tonight, lured as a sex creep.
But, just another night’s job for a police gal’s midnight job workweek.
All this time they had not noticed me…I stealthily uttered not a peep…
And as they parted they all joked and laughed under a street lamp of teak
Only then did I see, and I say this with honesty and meek
I saw what could belong to only one young woman in such a brief peep
Her perfectly white smile except for one gold tooth of soldered sheet.
Yes, you might say I knew of that young woman…the woman from Crete.
Just me, Lare
(4/4/2005 10:38:00 PM)
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Once a small dog did run away
Hid in a log inside the woods
met there a frog who was all green
one day a hog just wandered by
he wore a tog and did some grunting
That night the fog came to the trees
nearby, a bog was filled with sounds
a demagogue was in there, camping
drinking eggnog from silver cup
and was agog at goings on
went for a jog around the pines
then said in brogue something in Irish.Replies for this message:
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