Doyen Lingua

Rookie - 321 Points [Doyen Lingua] (1991 - still breathing / Oregon)

Doyen Lingua Poems

161. Death And I 2/11/2014
162. Reaper 2/22/2014
163. A Doctor's Religion 3/11/2014
164. As The Raven Falls 2/4/2014
165. Teddy Bear 2/4/2014
166. Asylum 2/4/2014
167. Fly On Wall... 8/10/2014
168. Canoeing 10/26/2014
169. Summer Of The Frogs 10/13/2014
170. The Inner Game Of Tennis 2/4/2014
171. Late One Night 2/4/2014
172. Wishes Of An Infant 2/21/2014
173. Avalanche 3/27/2014
174. Andy Warhol X30 2/4/2014
175. An Invitation 10/2/2014
176. Reincarnation. 8/10/2014
177. River Stone 2/20/2014
178. On The Back Of A Napkin 3/8/2014
179. #2 2/4/2014
180. An Ode To The Washing Machine 2/4/2014
181. God, My Lover 4/3/2014
182. Gargoyle 2/9/2014
183. A Poem Is 2/4/2014

Comments about Doyen Lingua

  • Daniel Brick Daniel Brick (2/17/2014 1:13:00 AM)

    I really misinterpreted Hello Again, Stranger when I wrote my comments yesterday. Actually it was early Sunday morning and my brain wasn't fully functioning. But tonight both that poem and WALKING ALONG... make perfect
    sense; they're two chapters from an on-going narrative. I don't know why I made the assumption that the couple in the first poem were uncommitted, hesitant, not ready to surrender to each other. Now I see from the opening they are connected: We traveled together... braved the unknown. And their rapport is mysteriously confirmed a few lines later: We went/because we were called/you and I. Is that an inner calling, because I don't see an outside agent. I really like the passage about the note he puts under her pillow, because it is a gesture of love. Your character doesn't have to say I love you, which would be a cliché, because he just proved his love with a gesture. (I'm going to stop and send this, because the problem might be the length of my comments.)

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Best Poem of Doyen Lingua

A Poem Is

condensed into a paste
smothered onto buttered toast
giving life a taste

are kept inside a jar inside the fridge
taken out for soup and salad
but never out to binge

just for celebrations
and wrapped with ribbon fare
not even philosophy deserves
this kind of special care

Read the full of A Poem Is

Little Monsters

Something there is that hates a shoe,
that splits the fib'rous ends in two;
and tends to wear the precious tread,
and makes the runners running-dead.

With every single step I take,
it seems to make the leather break.
What dreadful demon, (naughty sprite)
would come and take my shoes at night?

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