Treasure Island

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  • Max Reif (12/25/2005 1:48:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    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.

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

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

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

    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: //
    You may now buy Eulogy for the Human Race at 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? !

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

    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)

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

    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

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    • Hugh Cobb (12/26/2005 8:28:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

      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

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

    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.

  • Ron Price (7/17/2005 3:58:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    Rilke, Hardy and Me...some freeform.....Ron Price, Tasmania


    Love is...a high inducement to the individual to is an exacting claim on 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,
    emotional tendernesses
    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;
    be unsuspecting
    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.

    Ron Price

    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.

    Ron Price
    17 September 1995

    14 October 1995

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  • Casey Rock (7/15/2005 4:35:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    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.

  • Moriah Cyr (6/21/2005 6:36:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    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.

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    • Moriah Cyr (6/21/2005 6:40:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies Stage

      OOOPPPSS.... I forgot the 'poem'. :) Here goes. Don't Touch Don't touch me... I cannot bear you touch me there. My heart's in shambles, no longer there. I've hidden away my deep ... more

  • Bc Busby (6/12/2005 12:43:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Greetings everyone,

    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.

    BC Busby

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