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  • Rookie stan pelfrey (4/12/2006 4:43:00 AM) Post reply
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    Hi everyone.
    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,

  • Rookie - 0 Points Seshendra Sharma (2/24/2006 3:54:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    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-

    -Seshendra Sharma

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    • Rookie - 0 Points Aldo Kraas (2/10/2007 9:11:00 PM) Post reply

      Congratulations Your poem is wonderful It is music to my years And it is joy to my heart

  • Rookie - 7 Points Max Reif (12/31/2005 8:25:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    (NY TIMES POETRY PAGE, December 31,2005)
    Op-Ed Contributors

    Published: December 31,2005

    The Beautiful Quickness of a Street Boy

    Yusef Komunyakaa

    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
    Carl Phillips

    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
    almost nothing...

    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
    Seamus Heaney

    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
    Brad Leithauser

    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 —
    Exceptionally pretty.

    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.

    Sarah Arvio

    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.”

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    • Rookie - 7 Points Lori Boulard (1/2/2006 9:41:00 PM) Post reply

      Thank you, Max, thank you for providing something actually worth reading before I give up and turn in for the night. You know of my recent frustrations; I ventured into this forum for the first time ... more

  • Rookie - 7 Points Max Reif (12/26/2005 9:29:00 AM) Post reply

    December 4,1910

    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.

  • Rookie - 7 Points Max Reif (12/25/2005 1:48:00 PM) Post reply

    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.

  • Rookie Michael Whitt (12/6/2005 4:42:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    hey i'm really new. check my stuff tellme what ya think!

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  • Rookie Wolf Larsen (11/6/2005 8:08:00 PM) Post reply

    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? !

  • Rookie Tony Jennett (10/10/2005 6:29:00 PM) Post reply

    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)

  • Rookie Abdul Sattar (9/25/2005 1:35:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    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:

    The Moon

    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

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Hugh Cobb (12/26/2005 8:28:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Mr. Sattar: The poem is quite lovely. The images clean and precise, the descriptions take you into the realm you experienced and you communicate it well. That being said, I have some suggestions w ... more

  • Rookie Sandra Hoisington (8/15/2005 4:42:00 PM) Post reply

    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.

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