Lisa Marie Mcmillion-jones
(8/6/2006 2:00:00 PM)
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So, I am different what of it and if that is not what I am stating then what about the black darkness of my skin through hispanic culture? Whom is the judger of my personal backgrounds any ways so are you god then whom are you and why do you care so much about my backgrounds that you control my life with religion. So whom is not knowing the true light of religion then. That can be what ever they are wanting to master in so whom gives you the right to be racist of a persons thoughts for their color of their skin? So, why do you exist within this life time and how come you have no color? Is it because that is what god say or is it because you were born that way, which is it your thoughts or mine throughout the disecions of whom may I ask? LisaReplies for this message:
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Lisa Marie Mcmillion-jones
(8/6/2006 1:54:00 PM)
What is a thought that governs the ability to adjust to reasons of communications that don't show, but is just a blurred vision of expressed opinions that gather nothing but the amount of confusion that is not in existants with the ability to forsee the new days of views and thoughts that arrive for the views of most opinion when you are not present but keep visioning some other person in the mist. Lisa
(6/5/2006 5:07:00 PM)
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Never understood why people feel the need to make poetry rhyme.
Seems to restricting to me.
But each to there own.
For me free-form is the only way.Replies for this message:
(9/27/2006 6:41:00 AM)
Its not a statement jessica, it's a poem. clever
(6/29/2006 7:16:00 PM)
I absolutely agree. I find when I try to start rhyming in my work that I restrict the language I use as well as the imagery I am trying to convey. It seems tethering.
- Radio Head (9/27/2006 6:41:00 AM) Post reply
Blood Red Angel
(5/11/2006 1:28:00 PM)
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hey i just found this today and im new at writing free form
its madness inside my mind
its dark and i cant see the edge
i dont know were to go
or from where i came
the pits of hell seem nice
ive fallen over the edge
i am insane lost and blundering
everything is changing
why do you look at me that way
you all tend to stare
and talk and whisper
its madness the place i am in
if you could see inside my mind
if you could see the darkness
that i created to escape the stares and haunting whispers
with the evil glares you would run
you would scream
in the darkness
and its calling your name
come and play
with me inside the madness
of this mind
its taunting you the way you all have taunted me
for the way i am
you drove me to the darkness
then came the madness
and you wonder why i am that way
now you know
and its your turn
the darkness is calling
and its screaming your name
by: blood red angelReplies for this message:
(6/29/2006 7:24:00 PM)
This seems to portray the isolated emotional state that young adults can struggle with very well. Although some of the imagery was strong I found the narrator of the poem hard to finger- a homeless in ... more
(6/5/2006 8:19:00 PM)
I like it.
(5/14/2006 4:02:00 AM)
That's really cool in a gothic/emo kinda way. :)
- Jessica Clark (6/29/2006 7:24:00 PM) Post reply
(4/21/2006 12:21:00 AM)
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Hey, I'm new here, this is my first poem. Hope you like it.
Let's depend on each other
just like psychologists say not to
you can be my
cause and effect
my deep affection
my vital piece of
(4/12/2006 4:43:00 AM)
I signed up here quite a while back and kinda forgot I did until recently, sorry. I really enjoy everyone's work on here, and look forward to, as I come by more regularly, getting to know some of you. *cheers*
Thanks to everyone who has read and voted on my stuff,
(2/24/2006 3:54:00 AM)
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FLOWERS AND SILENCES
The dim darkness-the diffused light-dimness of one merging into the other-
imparting more length to the long trees that are standing like stretched out
shadows wearing stars in their hair- silence is imparting more depth to the darkness
in this advaita where darkness is merged into silence, my mind wakes up,
now not only sound but even a ray of light is a violent disturbance to the proundness
of peace- in such moments deep truths unveil themselves-
now I realise it is not sound but in silence melody lives-
I am born out of flowers and silences- while passing my hand brushed against a flower,
I asked 'are you bruised? ' 'Me or you' smiling, the flower questioned back- the heart
of my pen broke and split blood; - I do not know which paper can bear this pen-
In the gigantic silences of forests, which touch the blue skies, the carpenter bird pecks
at the trunks of great trees which echo, far reaching sounds-
what can he do among the tiny crotons?
I ate days like fruits-now I eat drops of tears like grapes-frightened by the sun
took refuge under shades-sitting on the pavement eating dreams from eyes like ice cream
with spoons- measuring my life with dark evenings- I distributed my wealth
once with metres, now I scatter with handfuls my future
letting it fly in all directions-
I washed my heart in tears and dried it over poetry- walked past
wearing people on my body like shawls-
in the assemblies of flames; in countries abroad I raised my gypsy voice
and sang mixing earth and sky-
this country is the graveyard of my genius- however fast I walk
the distance remains the same. This land is thirsty for my blood,
it is snoring in the little shades of pigmy trees-
I picked my pen and dipped it in the sun
to write a summer song for my nation-
(12/31/2005 8:25:00 AM)
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(NY TIMES POETRY PAGE, December 31,2005)
Published: December 31,2005
The Beautiful Quickness of a Street Boy
Where did he come from, this boy
pressing his face against the window
of the car on that January afternoon
in Burdwan? One of the three coins
slips from my outstretched fingers
& falls somewhere in the small car,
& I contort my body to retrieve
this touch of alloyed copper.
Then, I look up at the boy
pointing to the roses on the dashboard.
Afternoon light falls between us.
I hand him a rose, & he walks away
with his nose pushed into the bloom,
smiling to himself. In no time,
the boy is facing a young man
waiting on the platform.
They exchange a few words.
The man shoves a hand into his pocket
& gives the boy a coin,
& he dances away, leaving the man
holding the flower behind his back.
Our car fills with awe & laughter,
& someone says, There’s a woman
somewhere. That street boy,
as if he sprung out of me,
out of another time,
is still pleading with everything
he knows: his dusty clothes & eyes lit
by Shiva, his half smile & black hair
alive with lice, & his wounded song,
as a bearded monkey paces
the train station’s roof-spine.
Yusef Komunyakaa is the author of “Taboo: Book One of the Wishbone Trilogy.”
A Little Moonlight
Given inconstancy, the resistless
affair that has been my body (as if
there were no place to go from anywhere except
deeper, into those spaces the hand makes by
tugging the flesh, where it is part-able,
more open, or as if I believed, utterly, what
legend says about violation — how it leads
to prophecy, the god enters the body, the mouth
cracks open, and a mad fluttering, which
is the future, fills the cave, which is
desire, luck and hazard, hazard and luck) ,
I should perhaps regret more. But it’s grown
so late: see how dark, outside?
Suspecting, even then,
that the best way to avoid being
broken by flaw would be to shape my life
around it — flaw coming slowly
to define the self, as shells make of the glass
that holds them a little kingdom
of sea — I followed him, and have only once
looked back. Oh, I contain him
as the lion’s chest contains the arrow
that death displaces, effect always mattering
more than cause: pull the arrow free —
brandish it. By now it must weigh
I agree, to hope for a thing is to believe in it,
or at least to want to. When does belief
become expectation? Like committing
a crime, confessing to it, and thinking
confession might equal apology, mistaking
apology for to wipe clean away,
you turn your face to me. — What?
Trees in a wind. Their mixed
invitation of leaves flourishing as if unstoppable,
as if foliage were the greater part of it, the part
I could love best, or should learn to say I do
more often. Tell me why, when what I loved
from the start was how eventually each leaf must go.
Carl Phillips is the author of the forthcoming “Riding Westward.”
In a Loaning
Spoken for in autumn, recovered speech
Having its way again, I gave a cry:
“Not beechen green, but these shin-deep coffers
Of copper-fired leaves, these beech boles grey.”
Seamus Heaney, winner of the 1995 Nobel Prize in literature, is the author of the forthcoming “District and Circle.”
Brigit Pegeen Kelly
It was not a scorpion I asked for, I asked for a fish, but
maybe God misheard my request, maybe God thought
I said not “some sort of fish, ” but a “scorpion fish, ” a
request he would surely have granted, being a goodly
God, but then he forgot the “fish” attached to the
“scorpion” (because God, too, forgets, everything
forgets) : so instead of an edible fish, any small fish,
sweet or sour, or even the grotesque buffoonery of the
striped scorpion fish, crowned with spines and
followed by many tails, a veritable sideshow of a fish;
instead of these, I was given an insect, a peculiar
prehistoric creature, part lobster, part spider, part
bell-ringer, part son of a fallen star, something like a
disfigured armored dog, not a thing you can eat, or
even take on a meaningful walk, so ugly is it, so stiffly
does it step, as if on ice, freezing again and again in
mid-air like a listening ear, and then scuttling
backwards or leaping madly forward, its deadly tail
doing a St. Vitus jig. God gave me a scorpion, a
venomous creature, to be sure, a bug with the bite of
Cleopatra’s asp, but not, as I soon found out, despite
the dark gossip, a lover of violence or a hater of men.
In truth, it is shy, the scorpion, a creature with eight
eyes and almost no sight, who shuns the daylight, and
is driven mad by fire, who favors the lonely spot, and
feeds on nothing much, and only throws out its poison
barb when backed against a wall — a thing like me,
but not the thing I asked for, a thing, by accident or
design, I am now attached to. And so I draw the
curtains, and so I lay out strange dishes, and so I step
softly, and so I do not speak, and only twice, in many
years, have I been stung, both times because,
unthinking, I let in the terrible light. And sometimes
now, when I watch the scorpion sleep, I see how fine he
is, how rare, this creature called Lung Book or Mortal
Book because of his strange organs of breath. His
lungs are holes in his body, which open and close. And
inside the holes are stiffened membranes, arranged
like the pages of a book — imagine that! And when the
holes open, the pages rise up and unfold, and the blood
that circles through them touches the air, and by this
bath of air the blood is made pure... He is a house of
books, my shy scorpion, carrying in his belly all the
perishable manuscripts — a little mirror of the library
at Alexandria, which burned.
Brigit Pegeen Kelly is the author, most recently, of “Orchard.”
The Waterclock and the Hourglass
An old pair of parents, it appears,
In an old museum case... He unites
Form and function, plainly; she’s a thing
Of fancy and flourish, and is — for all her years —
He springs from Cathay, land of whispering
Bamboo and gently rain-wrung skies;
She’s of Venice, a flowing city
From whose brisk ovens
Glowing loaves of glass rise.
A mixed marriage, then, but by all lights
A happy one (differences reconciled —
They’ve learned to take things day by day) ,
Save that their only, problem child
Keeps running away.
Brad Leithauser is the author of “Darlington’s Fall, ” a novel in verse.
I was what mattered in the end. Or if
I didn’t matter then nothing mattered,
and if I mattered, well then all things did.
O miracles and molecules, dust, rust.
It was always a matter of matter.
It might be meat or else it might be love
(if I was meat, if I was fit to eat) .
What had never been matter would never
matter: you might say this was a moot point.
Clay and dust, ash and mud and mist and rust,
blood-orange sunsets and turning maples,
apples and cherries, sticks and trash and dust,
rumpled papers blowing across a street
(dead letters sent to him that lives away) .
There was life, there was loss, there was no such
thing as loss — there was nothing that wasn’t
both life and loss. No, it had to be said,
in questions of matter, nothing was lost.
It might be a matter of carnal love.
This was textual and material,
and for once the facts-of-the-matter were
both heartfelt and matter-of-fact. (Oh,
matter of course was always the mother.)
These were the facts of life, this was my life,
and there I was, right at the heart of it,
my own heart — at the heart-of-the-matter.
And did I matter now or in the end?
O mother, maintainer and measurer,
mud and fruit of the heart, meat of the heart,
the question might be asked, what was the end.
Sarah Arvio is the author of the forthcoming “Sono.”
(12/26/2005 9:29:00 AM)
By JESSIE B. RITTENHOUSE
THE SONG OF THE STONE WALL
By Helen Keller.
ith searching feet I walk beside the wall, ' says Miss Helen Keller in that remarkable piece of symbolism. 'The Song of the Stone Wall, ' whose lines lead one into new fields of psychology and make necessary a new interpretation of the sense of beauty. A poet is largely a poet by virtue of his finer, keener vision, his sensitive response to sound and form and color; but how shall one convey a perfect illusion of these things when they exist for him only in imagination, and how shall one imagine that for which he has no reality, no association in fact? 'O beautiful, blind stones, inarticulate and dumb! ' exclaims Miss Keller, with a poignant self-analogy which might be painful, but instead is triumphant and sweet. For here is one who has annihilated limitation and demonstrated that beauty is independent of the senses, and that light and joy are messengers who enter by closed doors.
Modern psychology cannot account for Miss Keller nor explain the psychic sense by which she apprehends the minutest phases of a beauty she has never witnessed. Note, for example, the exactness of impression, the perfect sense of reality, the apparently loving observation in these lines:
Sunbeams flit and waver in the rifts,
Vanish and reappear, linger and sleep,
Conquer with radiance the obdurate angles,
Filter between the naked rents and wind-bleached jags.
Is not this the report of an exquisite vision? Yet only sentient hands have discovered that 'sunbeams flit and waver in the rifts.'
This passage is, however, more directly allied to the physical than many other which lead one into conjecture as to Miss Keller's conception of beauty. How, having seen neither object, and lacking all data for their association, could she embody both in so exquisite an image as a 'peristyle of pines'?
'The Song of the Stone Wall' is conceived and executed in the Whitman spirit and with the Whitman influence apparent in its form. But what more liberating influence to an imprisoned art-sense just seeking its expression? Miss Keller conceives her subject broadly.
The wall is an Iliad of granite, it chants to me
she says, with that fine elation worthy of her master and listening with ears not dulled by mortal sounds, records its chants. The wall is the symbol of its Puritan builders; stone upon stone it is fashioned of their ideals: it stands firm in their convictions; unyielding in their will. Miss Keller sees the procession of the builders.
One by one, the melancholy phantoms go stepping from me
And I follow them in and out among the stones.
But the pursuit does not depress, it inspires, and as this eager spirit follows with guiding hand upon the stones, they become to her
Embossed books unobilterated by the tears and laughter of Time.
In the delicate nature touches here and there, the pictures and conjures, Miss Keller leaves us filled with wonder, rather than in the working out of her poem on the symbolical side. This is done as others might do it, albeit with ideality and often with eloquent music, but the real offering of this little book is the sense that beauty is a spiritual conception, a dream-sphere of the soul, made one with nature and life in a mystical reality.
(12/25/2005 1:48:00 PM)
history of Christmas, from 'THE WRITER'S ALMANAC', Dec.25,2005
Today is Christmas Day, celebrated by Christians since the 4th century AD. Early Christians believed that the only important holiday of the year was Easter, but in the 4th century, a heretical Christian sect started claiming that Jesus had only been a spirit, and had never had a body. The Church decided to emphasize Jesus' bodily humanity by celebrating his birth.
Most Christian theologians believe that Jesus was actually born in the spring, because the scripture mentions shepherds letting their animals roam in the fields at night. The Christian church probably chose December 25th as the official birth date because of competition with pagan cults, who celebrated the winter solstice on that date.
The problem with combining Christian and pagan traditions was that the winter solstice had traditionally been a time of drunken feasting and revelry, and many Christmas celebrations became similarly festive. Many preachers began to speak out against the celebration of Christmas, and after the Protestant Reformation, Puritans outlawed Christmas altogether.
It was only in the mid 19th century that Christmas became a domestic holiday associated with family. The transformation was due in part to government crackdowns on wild street parties. In 1828, New York City organized its first professional police force in response to a violent Christmas riot. Eventually it became more fashionable to stay at home with family than to go out to big parties.
One practice that endures from pagan traditions is the singing of carols. The word 'carol' comes from the Greek 'choros, ' which is a circular dance accompanied by singing, usually to celebrate fertility. After most Europeans became Christians, they began to write and perform folk songs at Christmas time to express their joy at baby Jesus' birth.
But the church often discouraged the singing of carols because they were considered too secular, and the practice of caroling almost died out under church pressure. When Christmas became a more domestic holiday in the mid-1800s, there was a carol renaissance, and many of the most popular carols were written in that period, including, 'Away in a Manger, ' 'O Little Town of Bethlehem', and 'Silent Night' written in Austria in 1818.