Members Who Read Most Number Of Poems

Live Scores

Click here to see the rest of the list

Poetics and Poetry Discussion

Post a message
  • Mike Acker (1/25/2014 9:48:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Boy, a guy can't get a decent break in this world of poetry. Yeah, I am busted. I was curious to know how a person's work is viewed when entering a new environment. Just an experiment. We tend to have prejudices about different people's writings based on their history, or their background or even older writings. Interesting experiment. No crimes were committed.

    Replies for this message:
  • Stan Grossman (1/25/2014 9:28:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I pack buns. It's all I do. That's why they call me Packer. Mostly I pack b*ttholes. Line up so Perry can pack your buns. You go first Therrie. I kinda like those buns.

    Replies for this message:

    To read all of 1 replies click here
  • Stan Grossman (1/25/2014 9:11:00 PM) Post reply

    Did I forget to tell you I'm a butth*le?Sorry. Yes, I am. A butth*le.

  • Stan Grossman (1/25/2014 9:10:00 PM) Post reply

    Perry Packer the name. Poetry is my game. You may not like me very much. Then again, you might not like me either. I'm a dumbsh*t. You see?Gonna do a lot of talkin' and whippin' it out on ya'll. Just wait. Perry Packer?Yes, Perry Packer.

  • Stan Grossman (1/25/2014 8:54:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    You changed the name back?Bad Move. Make your audience wonder a little. Mediocre Who?Mediocre what?Don't be so obvious. A great poem deserves a great title.

    Replies for this message:

    To read all of 1 replies click here
  • Dan Reynolds (1/25/2014 7:41:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    Bollocks tay the lot o' ye. Grow up and get on wi' it. There's mer pish worth botherin' aboot than the pish ye'r spoutin' here,


    ; ¬)

    Replies for this message:

    To read all of 3 replies click here
  • Lamont Palmer (1/25/2014 6:40:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    And, honestly, if I'm a 'failed' poet, what does that make everyone else here, raving successes?Your criteria for 'failure' pretty much describes every member here, with the exception of JC. See how stoooooooopid you are?Ha. -LP

    Replies for this message:

    To read all of 1 replies click here
  • Lamont Palmer (1/25/2014 6:34:00 PM) Post reply

    I see you've stopped repeating the drivel that no one here has ever said anything good about my poetry. I love outing liars and psychopaths. -LP



    Date & Time: 6/5/2005 5: 13: 00 AM Remove this comment

    Poem: 1286921 - 1 -Rain, Isolation, Self-Analysis Member: Michael Shepherd Comment: I agree entirely with Andrew. Curiously, I felt that TSEliot would admire this for its confessional subsumed in the detached observation by the eye of wisdom. And I understand now what you mean by 'music', Lamont - here,4-7 stresses in a line, with iambics as default foot. And the similes and metaphors arise naturally and colour the drawing, so to speak. A model of a mature poem, if I may say so... | Delete this message

    To post a reply to this message, click here
    Replies for this message:

  • Lamont Palmer (1/25/2014 3:56:00 PM) Post reply

    Lamont Palmer Male,52, United States (1/25/2014 10: 37: 00 AM)
    Mr. Alias Asshole, this is a comment from a wonderful poet and critic, who, despite our disagreements occasionally, was humble and keen enough to attempt to see things from my view. I do I miss him and others with similar dignity and intelligence. Even Saywell, a gadfly in his own right, had more substance then this scum that hangs out here now. Scum, that we all know of course, but is too scared to reveal who they are. They know if I knew who they were, I'd RIP them to SHREDS, to put it mildly. Which is why they want to keep their poetry, their forum comment record, their history here, a secret.


    Date & Time: 6/5/2005 5: 13: 00 AM Remove this comment

    Poem: 1286921 - 1 -Rain, Isolation, Self-Analysis Member: Michael Shepherd Comment: I agree entirely with Andrew. Curiously, I felt that TSEliot would admire this for its confessional subsumed in the detached observation by the eye of wisdom. And I understand now what you mean by 'music', Lamont - here,4-7 stresses in a line, with iambics as default foot. And the similes and metaphors arise naturally and colour the drawing, so to speak. A model of a mature poem, if I may say so... | Delete this message

    To post a reply to this message, click here
    Replies for this message:



    Lamont Palmer (1/25/2014 3: 54: 00 PM) Post reply | Delete this message
    Shep's assessment is as substantial as anyone's, frankly. And notice, he's CONCEDING a point to me. Only one of great intelligence and humility would do that. Not sure why you would make a claim that is so easily refuted. I suppose you're just that stooooooopid. -LP

    Therrie Cathel (1/25/2014 2: 41: 00 PM) Post reply
    What would really close the case is some quote from the 1930's or further back.2005 is too recent don't you think?

  • Sherrie Kolb Cassel (1/25/2014 12:40:00 PM) Post reply

    For the willfully and woefully embittered...and to those who love poetry. I bid you a wonderful day.

    The Country Wh*re

    By Cesare Pavese

    Translated By Geoffrey Brock

    The big front wall that blocks off the courtyard
    often catches the newborn light of the sun
    like the side of a barn. The body awakes
    in the morning to a room, messy and empty,
    that smells of the first, clumsy perfume.
    Even that body, wrapped now in sheets,
    is the same that it was when it thrilled in discovery.


    Her body wakes alone to the extended call
    of morning, the languor of another morning
    returning in the heavy shadows: the barn
    of childhood and the heavy tiredness of sun
    hot in the indolent doorways. A perfume
    worked itself into the usual sweat
    of her hair, a smell the animals knew.

    Her body took secret pleasure in the sun’s
    suggestive, serene caress—like a real touch.
    The languor of bed saps the sprawled limbs,
    still youthful and plump, like a child’s.
    The clumsy child used to smell the mixed scent
    of tobacco and hay, used to tremble when touched
    by the man’s quick hands: she liked playing games.

    Sometimes she played lying down with the man
    in the hay, but he wasn’t smelling her hair:
    he’d find her closed legs in the hay and pry
    them open, then crush her like he was her father.
    The perfume was flowers ground upon stones.


    It often returns, in the slow rise from sleep,
    that undone aroma of far-off flowers,
    of barns and of sun. No man can know
    the subtle caress of that sour memory.
    No man can see, beyond that sprawled body,
    that childhood passed in such clumsy anxiety.

[Hata Bildir]