Poetics and Poetry Discussion
(12/20/2013 9:52:00 PM)
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Dear Mr Seter: Don't monopolize. I can hardly find a grain in the chaff. Silence is better than thunder which shatters the eardrums.
(12/20/2013 9:25:00 PM)
OK boys and girls here we are in the wingless bird pit. Now everyone be careful where you step. One day when you become adults and want to become poets let's say, you never want to end up here! " Why not, Ma'am?" That is a good question Charlie. If you look at that fat huge bird there, the one with the reading glasses on the tip of its nose, what do you notice, kids?(Chorus) " " He has huge dubbs, nubs, stubs and big feathers coming out of them." " They are Nubs, kids. N-U-B-S, Nubs!
Seter just wants to say something to the female bird, boy is she big!
Pseudo, Sherrie, you forgot the pseudo prefix. Only a pseudo-intellectual would make a point of correcting her fellow pseudo-intellectual's grammar:
Supposedly embarrassing error by L. Palmer(resident male pseudo-intellectual and biggest bird) :
" " Of course, when I like someone, I don't necessarily mean to imply that I think they're better than ME, I just mean I have an affinity for their style. Paterson's work reminds me of my own - some elements of formality, but essentially free verse: the way WCW and Eliot meant for it to be written. Opps my apologies to Seter for flaunting my enormous and colorful wings in his...err...'presence'...whatever he/she/it is. -LP " " " "
Corrected by our own Sherrie Broken Garden Tool Gonzalez(resident female pseudo-intellectual and second biggest bird) :
" " You mean, " better than I" (am) (OUCH! !) .... I've read your poem before, Mr. Palmer. I'm not fond ot it. It's a bit bloated, IMO." "
. Classic pseudo-intellectual behavior. Why do I feel like I just stepped into dog sh$t or is it bird sh$t?My god I have never seen so many wingless birds! One good thing, without the wings the 2 inch thick bird sh$t remains relatively undisturbed. Imagine what this would be like if there were wings flapping?Oh, wait a minute had that been the case, these birds would have all taken off and soared. Man those nubs are ugly. Those two huge bird over there have feathers growing off their nubs that they are pruning like they are wings, pathetic. Oh, see you later; there are two big fat ones (one looks like a garden tool but cracked) waddling over making notes as they make their way. When I read Acker's(Mediocrities) poem years ago I never imagined this place existed. Got to run....Flap Flap FLap FLAp FLAP FLAP FLAP F L A P and away I go.....................sorry down there, couldn't hold it any longer!
What have we learned today, boy and girls?Yes, Seter?I learned today that pseudo-intellectuals are like nouveau riche. They have to constantly flaunt their intellect because they once had none and were ashamed and made fun of(or their parents were low class and didn't speak well) and now they have to cover up their insecurity and make sure they are never seen for what they really; nouveau intellectuals?Very good Seter! Are there other nouveau intellectual phonies?Yes, Seter (again!) ?Yes Ma'am there are. They are Paul Sh$tannon, Augustus Egg, Scott D.Ogg, Bob Cratchit's Little Timmy oh oh and Susanne Ranier. Very good Seter. What do we think of pseudo intellectuals, kids?(Chorus) " A$$h0les, Ma'am." Yes kids. What do we call the ones you can see through: (Chorus) " A$$h0les, Ma'am." No, kids we call them personas. P-E-R-SONAs. You see real intellectuals, like really rich people never make a big fuss about their intellectual abilities. They usually have big wings and simply soar awwaaaaaayyyyyy. But as you see, none of these " birds" have wings. What do they have classs?Yes, Charlie?Dubbs?No, Charlie. Yes, Seter(again!) ?Nubs, Ma'am. Very good Seter! Sorry Charlie you said you saw a bird here with huge wings?Oh that is Dr. Jefferson Carter. He comes here sometimes to help some of these birds learn to fly. You see there is one there on a ledge with beautiful new wings. Do you see any others kids?No, very sad. You see most of them here have what we adults call denial issues which not even Dr. Carter has been able to cure. Someone, I don't recall who, wrote a famous poem about these birds and their flight, I meant plight(it could be that bird with the great young wings on the ledge) . Anyway, time to go home kids. Everyone take your dirty boots off on the ledge there.
(12/20/2013 7:51:00 PM)
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This a treasure trove. Thank you MA. What was I doing in the tool shed? Oh I was going to answer the question the addicted broken hoe asked me. Yes, I have that kind of shed! Yes, I talk to hoes, chocolate covered rabbits and black coals, all wannabe poets. To the garden hoe in the corner there, answer some of these questions and I won't consider you a high school reta.
(12/20/2013 7:34:00 PM)
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(we have that many snakes hiding in the bushes?)
Sherrie Kolb Cassel
(12/20/2013 7:33:00 PM)
By Ben Belitt 1911–2003
(White River Junction, Vermont)
Bringing “only what is needed—essential
toilet articles” in a paper bag,
dressed as for dying, one sees the dying plainly.
These are the homecomings of Agamemnon,
the odysseys to the underside of the web
that weaves and unweaves while the suitors gorge upon plenty
and the languishing sons at home unwish their warring
fathers with strong electric fingers.
The fathers are failing.
In the Hospital Exchange, one sees the dying plainly:
color televisions, beach towels, automatic razors—
the hardware of the affluent society marked
down to cost, to match the negative afflatus
of the ailing, the bandages and badges of their status.
Under the sandbags, rubber hoses, pipettes, bed-clamps,
tax-exempt, amenable as rabbits,
the unenlisted men are bleeding through their noses
in a perimeter of ramps and apparatus.
In that prosthetic world, the Solarium
lights up a junk-pile of used parts: the hip that caught
a ricochet of shrapnel; tattoos in curing meats;
scars like fizzled fuses; canceled postage stamps;
automated claws in candy; the Laser’s edge; and barium.
The nurses pass like mowers, dressing and
undressing in the razor-sharp incisions
and the flowering phosphorescence. The smell
of rubbing alcohol rises on desertions and deprivals
and divorces. It is incorruptible. A wheelchair aims
its hospital pajamas like a gun-emplacement.
The amputee is swinging in his aviary.
His fingers walk the bird-bars.
There is singing
from the ward room—a buzzing of transistors
like blueflies in a urinal. War over war,
the expendables of Metz and Chateau-Thierry,
the guerillas of Bien Hoa and Korea,
the draftees, the Reserves, the re-enlisters,
open a common wavelength.
sons are revving up their combos in the era
of the angry adolescent. Their cry is electronic.
Their thumbs are armed with picks. The acid-rock guitarist
in metal studs and chevrons, bombed with magnesium,
mourns like a country yokel, and the innocents
On the terrace, there are juices
and bananas. The convalescent listens to his
heartbeat. The chaplain and his non-combative daughter
smile by the clubbed plants on the portico.
“They shall overcome.”
Sherrie Kolb Cassel
(12/20/2013 7:30:00 PM)
I love a worthy opponent, truly I do. I do not have one in you, Seter. Your arguments are spewed through the angry teeth of an overgrown child who has been overlooked his/her entire life. Champing at the bit incoherently does nothing for your position. Your position is only weakened by your inability to form an intelligent argument.
Resorting to childish slurs, " dog/bird sh$t" , " Flap, Flap, Flap" , " cracked garden hoe" - really?The best you can do is schoolyard barbs?
Please continue your crusade against the objects of your affection, obsession, compulsion. I see how doing so fulfills you. I am honored to be of service to you.
(12/20/2013 7:15:00 PM)
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Poetry, simply narration, or maybe a " narroem" ?
For all the religious zealots(sorry, of course zealots always consider themselves to be religiously liberal minded. Me, a zealot?Why, no! No zealot here, no zealot there, but they are everywhere.) everywhere on this great Holiday.
Sherrie Kolb Cassel
(12/20/2013 6:38:00 PM)
Body and Soul
By Sharon Bryan b.1943
They grow up together
but they aren't even fraternal
twins, they quarrel a lot
about where to go and what
to do, the body complains
about having to carry
the soul everywhere as if
it were some helpless cripple,
and the soul snipes that it can go
places the body never dreamed of,
then they quarrel over which one of them
does the dreaming, but the truth is,
they can't live without each other and
they both know it, anima, animosity,
the diaphragm pumps like a bellows
and the soul pulls out all the stops—
sings at the top of its lungs, laughs
at its little jokes, it would like
to think it has the upper hand
and can leave whenever it wants—
but only as long as it knows
the door will be unlocked
when it sneaks back home before
the sun comes up, and when the body
says where have you been, the soul
says, with a smirk, I was at the end
of my tether, and it was, like a diver
on the ocean floor or an astronaut
admiring the view from outside
the mother ship, and like them
it would be lost without its air
supply and protective clothing,
the body knows that and begins
to hum, I get along without you
very well, and the soul says, Listen
to that, you can't sing worth a lick
without me, they'll go on bickering
like this until death do them part—
and then, even if the soul seems to float
above the body for a moment,
like a flame above a candle, pinch
the wick and it disappears.
(12/20/2013 2:52:00 PM)
In light of the oncoming, hijacked, celebration of a once pagan festival....
The mall on Christmas Eve was not the same
The mall on Christmas Eve was not the same
She sensed an absence, something not quite right.
That husband whom she’d took so long to tame
had disappeared so swiftly out of sight.
She waited for an hour, or maybe two
before she took the mobile from her coat.
Two lowly rings then answered by “Yoohoo! ”
(The giddy tone came from her husband’s throat.)
She blasted him with, “I’ve been worried sick!
Not knowing where you’d gone or where you are! ”
The husband who was used to getting stick
replied, “My dear, I’ve not gone very far.
Remember, on this day, ten years ago,
that jewellers where you saw that diamond ring?
I sensed then how you loved it, but I know,
we chose to give the children everything.”
Her pulse was pounding fast, she thought she’d die.
The guilt within could burst her from the core.
“That shop, I DO remember Dear, but why?”
“That’s good” he said, “I’m in the pub next door! ”
NB. A joke(Not mine) adapted into a rhyme.
(12/20/2013 1:43:00 PM)
More murmerings again. O
blink the sun, sink the rum
down on the vibre optic
of the tram electrocuted