Other people's poems

Prose, poetry, music, art, it all goes in here! Showcase your creative talents.

Postby elko » Thu Apr 27, 2006 7:34 pm

<!--quoteo--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->THE BALLAD OF THE SKELETONS
By Allen Ginsburg, Philip Glass and Paul McCartney


SAID THE PRESIDENTIAL SKELETON, "I WON'T SIGN THE BILL!"
SAID THE SPEAKER SKELETON, "YES YOU WILL!"
SAID THE REPRESENTITIVE SKELETON, "I OBJECT"
SAID THE SUPREME COURT SKELETON, "WHAT DO YOU EXPECT?"

SAID THE MILITARY SKELETON, "BUY STAR BOMBS"
SAID THE UPPER-CLASS SKELETON, "STARVE UNMARRIED MOMS"
SAID THE YAHOO SKELETON, "STOP DIRTY ART"
SAID THE RIGHT WING SKELETON, "FORGET ABOUT YOUR HEART"

SAID THE GNOSTIC SKELETON, "HUMAN FORM'S DIVINE"
SAID THE CHRISTIAN COALITION SKELETON, "NO IT'S NOT, IT'S MINE"
SAID THE BUDDHA SKELETON, "COMPASSION IS WEALTH"
SAID THE CORPORATE SKELETON, "IT'S BAD FOR YOUR HEALTH"

SAID THE OLD CHRIST SKELETON, "CARE FOR THE POOR"
SAID THE SON OF GOD SKELETON, "AIDS NEEDS CURE"
SAID THE HOMOPHOBE SKELETON, "GAY FOLKS SUCK"
SAID THE HERTIAGE POLICY SKELETON, "BLACKS ARE OUT OF LUCK"

SAID THE MACHO SKELETON, "WOMEN IN THEIR PLACE"
SAID THE FUNDAMENTALIST SKELETON, "INCREASE THE HUMAN RACE"
SAID THE RIGHT-TO-LIFE SKELETON, "FETUS HAS A SOUL"
SAID THE PRO-CHOICE SKELETON, "SHUT UP YOUR HOLES!"

SAID THE DOWNSIZE SKELETON, "ROBOTS GOT MY JOB"
SAID THE TOUGH ON CRIME SKELETON, "TEARGAS THE MOB!"
SAID THE GOVENOR SKELETON, "CUT SCHOOL LUNCH"
SAID THE MAYOR SKELETON, "EAT THE BUDGET CRUNCH"
SAID THE NEO-CONSERVATIVE SKELETON, "HOMLESS OFF THE STREETS"
SAID THE FREE MARKET SKELETON, "USE 'EM UP FOR MEAT"

SAID THE THINK TANK SKELETON, "FREE MARKET'S THE WAY"
SAID THE SAVINGS AND LOAN SKELETON, "MAKE THE STATE PAY"
SAID THE CHRYSLER SKELETON, "PAY FOR YOU AND ME"
SAID THE NUKE POWER SKELETON, "AND ME AND ME AND ME"
SAID THE ECOLOGIC SKELETON, "KEEP SKIES BLUE"
SAID THE MULTI-NATIONAL SKELETON, "WHAT'S IT WORTH TO YOU?"

SAID THE NAFTA SKELETON, "GET RICH - FREE TRADE"
SAID THE MAFIADORA SKELETON, "SWEATSHOPS, LOW PAY"
SAID THE RICH GAT SKELETON, "ONE WORLD, HI-TECH"
SAID THE UNDERCLASS SKELETON, "GET IT IN THE NECK"
SAID THE WORLD BANK SKELETON, "CUT DOWN YOUR TREES"
SAID THE IMF SKELETON, "BUY AMERICAN CHEESE"

SAID THE UNDER-DEVELOPED SKELETON, "WE WANT RICE"
SAID THE DEVELOPED NATION SKELETON, "SELL YOUR BONES FOR DICE"

SAID THE AYATOLA SKELETON, "DIE WRITER, DIE"
SAID THE JOE STALIN SKELETON, "THAT'S NO LIE"
SAID THE MIDDLE-KINGDOM SKELTON, "WE SWALLOWED TIBET"
SAID THE DALI LAMA SKELETON, "INDIGESTION'S WHAT YOU GET!"
SAID THE WORLD CORP. SKELETON, "THAT'S THEIR FATE"
SAID THE USA SKELETON, "GONNA SAVE KUWAIT"

SAID THE PETRO-CHEMICALS SKELETON, "ROAR BOMBERS, ROAR!"
SAID THE PSYCHEDELIC SKELETON, "SMOKE A DINOSAUR"
SAID THE NANCY SKELETON, "JUST SAY NO!"
SAID THE RASTA SKELETON, "BLOW NANCY BLOW!"

SAID THE DEMOGOG SKELETON, "DON'T SMOKE POT"
SAID THE ALCOHOLIC SKELETON, "LET YOUR LIVER ROT"
SAID THE JUNKY SKELETON, "CAN'T WE GET A FIX?"
SAID THE BIG BROTHER SKELETON, "JAIL THE DIRTY PRICKS!"
SAID THE MIRROR SKELETON, "HEY GOOD LOOKING"
SAID THE ELECTRIC CHAIR SKELETON, "HEY, WHAT'S COOKING?"

SAID THE TALKSHOW SKELETON, "FUCK YOU IN THE FACE"
SAID THE FAMILY-VALUE SKELETON, "MY FAMILY-VALUE MAKES"
SAID THE NEW YORK TIMES SKELETON, "THAT'S NOT FIT TO PRINT"
SAID THE CIA SKELETON, "CAN'T YOU TAKE A HINT?"

SAID THE NETWORK SKELETON, "BELIEVE MY EYES"
SAID THE ADVERTISING SKELETON, "DON'T GET WISE"
SAID THE MEDIA SKELETON, "BELIEVE YOU ME"
SAID THE COUCH POTATO SKELETON, "WHAT ME WORRY?"
SAID THE TV SKELETON, "EAT SOUND BYTES"
SAID THE NEWSCAST SKELETON, "THAT'S ALL, GOODNIGHT"<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
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Postby helmoz » Wed May 17, 2006 6:38 pm

Bref wrote:Anyone know where I can find that poem Mark Lamar wrote"I am the James Dean of the dole queue", i've heard it's really good but I can't find it anywhere.


<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Too_fast_to_live_too_young_to_work" target="_blank">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Too_fast_to_l...o_young_to_work</a>
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Postby chicken » Thu May 18, 2006 3:01 am

i saw Marianne Boruch read earlier this spring. she really didn't get into a good rhythm (the enthusiam of the audience took her aback a bit i think), but she still gave me goose-pimples.

here's a snippet from a very long poem called: The History of The:
...
I would draw my cat,
but she'd look back. I would
draw her but she's
way past sleep and sheds her
quiet like tickertape
down the long hallway, talking
cranky and offkey.

Of couse, it's winter. I would draw
that, but a pencil isn't
fierce enough for branches stripped
to nothing. To one leaf, which
is as good as nothing. And nothing--
that gift needs invisible ink.

I'd draw the way words feel
in the mouth after too long without
words, or the way the body rises after
hours of dream, gravity
on every bone again, that anchoring
and ache.

Or I wouldn't. Or I couldn't.
Or I'd bury the treasure
in the most obvious place...."


i have just one of her books of poety, 206 pages of it is not enough. she's quite talented.
page after page, i keep underlining, i keep smiling, and turn back 50 pages to go through it again. great stuff!!!
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Postby elko » Mon Sep 25, 2006 11:06 pm

I don't read books of poetry often but I picked one up in the library and the first poem hit me as interesting. I don't nesseccarily agree with it all, but I like the confidence of the statement. It is by Charles Bukowski.

<!--quoteo--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->
SO YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER?


if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or

fame,

don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don't do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,

don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it.





if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.



if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you're not ready.



don't be like so many writers,

don't be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don't be dull and boring and

pretentious, don't be consumed with self-

love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don't add to that.

don't do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don't do it.



when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.



there is no other way.



and there never was.<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
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Postby chicken » Wed Sep 27, 2006 10:45 pm

Bukowsky has been suggested to me.
elko, what were you reading to have found that?
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Postby elko » Wed Sep 27, 2006 11:02 pm

chicken wrote:Bukowsky has been suggested to me.
elko, what were you reading to have found that?

A book of his poems, in the library.

I don't find the rest of it as hard-hitting as that poem, and I don't really get subtlety.
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Postby Bref » Fri Sep 29, 2006 2:01 pm

elko wrote:<!--quoteo(post=34228:date=Sep 27 2006, 11:45 PM:name=chicken)--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE(chicken @ Sep 27 2006, 11:45 PM) [snapback]34228[/snapback]</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->
Bukowsky has been suggested to me.
elko, what were you reading to have found that?

A book of his poems, in the library.

I don't find the rest of it as hard-hitting as that poem, and I don't really get subtlety.
<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->

I liked that poem elko, thanks.


Twice Shy


Her scarf a la Bardot,
In suede flats for the walk,
She came with me one evening
For air and friendly talk.
We crossed the quiet river,
Took the embankment walk.

Traffic holding its breath,
Sky a tense diaphragm:
Dusk hung like a backcloth
That shook where a swan swam,
Tremulous as a hawk
Hanging deadly, calm.

A vacuum of need
Collapsed each hunting heart
But tremulously we held
As hawk and prey apart,
Preserved classic decorum,
Deployed our talk with art.

Our Juvenilia
Had taught us both to wait,
Not to publish feeling
And regret it all too late -
Mushroom loves already
Had puffed and burst in hate.

So, chary and excited,
As a thrush linked on a hawk,
We thrilled to the March twilight
With nervous childish talk:
Still waters running deep
Along the embankment walk.

Seamus Heaney
<!--sizeo:3--><span style="font-size:12pt;line-height:100%"><!--/sizeo--><!--fonto:Book Antiqua--><span style="font-family:Book Antiqua"><!--/fonto--><!--fonto:Arial Narrow--><span style="font-family:Arial Narrow"><!--/fonto--><!--fonto:Arial--><span style="font-family:Arial"><!--/fonto-->Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where,
we don't know where.
<!--fontc--></span><!--/fontc--><!--sizec--></span><!--/sizec--><!--fontc--></span><!--/fontc--><!--fontc--></span><!--/fontc-->
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Postby chicken » Fri Oct 06, 2006 10:47 pm

elko wrote: I don't really get subtlety.



sometimes poetry is uncomfortably brash and naked, rude crude and beautiful all the same. <a href="http://www.people.virginia.edu/~jng2d/enlt255/texts/howl/howl.htm" target="_blank">Allen Ginsberg's "Howl"</a> is just such a poem. definitely not gentle poetry, this stuff is like a kick in the head when you read it the right way. (it's supposed to be read as if it were a sermon at church, at least that's how ginsberg read it aloud.)
given the date this was written, it is of no surprise what the 1960's did to the usa.

it is a very long peom.
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Postby elko » Fri Oct 06, 2006 10:50 pm

chicken wrote:<!--quoteo(post=34231:date=Sep 27 2006, 11:02 PM:name=elko)--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE(elko @ Sep 27 2006, 11:02 PM) [snapback]34231[/snapback]</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->
I don't really get subtlety.



sometimes poetry is uncomfortably brash and naked, rude crude and beautiful all the same. <a href="http://www.people.virginia.edu/~jng2d/enlt255/texts/howl/howl.htm" target="_blank">Allen Ginsberg's "Howl"</a> is just such a poem. definitely not gentle poetry, this stuff is like a kick in the head when you read it the right way. (it's supposed to be read as if it were a sermon at church, at least that's how ginsberg read it aloud.)
given the date this was written, it is of no surprise what the 1960's did to the usa.

it is a very long peom.
<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
It is the sort of poem I stumble across every now and then, and find lines I already know amongst other confusing lines that would probably be just as good if I understood them. It does seem like a sermon....like I don't understand it yet. I read "On The Road" by Jack Kerouac and thought it was rubbish.
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Postby helmoz » Wed Nov 29, 2006 3:23 pm

i found this on wikipedia the other day, i like it.

The Wussy Boy Manifesto

My name is Big Poppa E,
and I am a Wussy Boy.

It's taken me a long time to admit it...
I remember shouting in high school,
"No, Dad, I'm not gay!
I'm just... sensitive.
I tried to like hot rods and jet planes
and football and Budweiser poster girls,
but I never got the hang of it!
I donʼt know whatʼs wrong with me..."

Then, I saw him,
there on the silver screen,
bigger than life and unafraid
of earrings and hair dye
and rejoicing in the music
of The Cure and Morrissey
and Siouxsie and The Banshees,
talking loud and walking proud
my Wussy Boy icon:
Duckie in Pretty in Pink.

And I realized I wasn't alone.

And I looked around
and saw other Wussy Boys
living large and proud of who they were:
Ralph Macchio, Wussy Boy;
Matthew Broderick, Wussy Boy;
and lord god king
of the Wussy Boy movement,
John Cusack in Say Anything,
unafraid to prove to the world
that sensitive guys much kick ass.

Now I am no longer ashamed
of my Wussiness, hell no,
I'm empowered by it.

When I'm at a stoplight and
some testosterone redneck
methamphetamine
jock fratboy asshole dumb fuck
pulls up beside me
blasting his Trans AM's stereo
with power chord anthems to big tits
and date rape,
I no longer avoid his eyesight, hell no,
I just crank all 12 watts of my car stereo
and I rock out right into his face:
"I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does!"

I am Wussy Boy, hear me roar!

Bar fight? Pshaw!
You think you can take me, huh?
Just because I like poetry
better than Sports Illustrated?
Well, allow me to caution you,
for I am not the average every day
run-of-the-mill Wussy Boy you
beat up in high school, punk,
I am Wuss Core!

Don't make me get Renaissance
on your ass because I will
write a poem about you!

A poem that tears your psyche
limb from limb,
that exposes your selfish insecurities,
that will wound you deeper
and more severely
than knives and chains and gats
and baseball bats
could ever hope to do.

You may see 65 inches of Wussy Boy
standing in front of you,
but my steel-toed soul is
ten foot tall and bullet proof!

Bring the pain, punk,
beat the shit out of me!
Show everybody in this bar
what a real man can do
to a shit-talking Wussy Boy like me,
but you'd better remember:
my bruises will fade
my cuts will heal,
my scars will shrink and disappear,
but my poem
about the pitiful, small, helpless
cock-man oppressor you really are
will last
forever.


copyright 1999, eirik ott (aka big poppa e)
Last edited by helmoz on Wed Nov 29, 2006 3:31 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby chicken » Fri Dec 01, 2006 1:56 am

helmoz wrote:i found this on wikipedia the other day, i like it.

what on earth was your search to find such a treasure?
great stuff, going to hand this out to fellow profs at the uni.
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Postby helmoz » Sat Dec 02, 2006 1:47 am

chicken wrote:<!--quoteo(post=37706:date=Nov 29 2006, 03:23 PM:name=helmoz)--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE(helmoz @ Nov 29 2006, 03:23 PM) [snapback]37706[/snapback]</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->
i found this on wikipedia the other day, i like it.

what on earth was your search to find such a treasure?
great stuff, going to hand this out to fellow profs at the uni.
<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
morrissey :D
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Postby rubygirl » Tue Sep 04, 2007 11:20 pm

This is one poem I've quite fallen in love with recently... on how you should never be quick to judge and suppose without knowing what it is all about...



The Cookie Thief by Valerie Cox


A woman was waiting at an airport one night With several long hours before her flight. She hunted for a book in the airport shop Bought a bag of cookies and found a place to drop. She was engrossed in her book but happened to see That the man beside her as bold as could be Grabbed a cookie or two from the bag between Which she tried to ignore to avoid a scene. She munched cookies and watched the clock As this gutsy cookie thief diminished her stock.

She was getting more irritated as the minutes ticked by Thinking "If I wasn't so nice I'd blacken his eye". With each cookie she took he took one too And when only one was left she wondered what he'd do. With a smile on his face and a nervous laugh He took the last cookie and broke it in half.

He offered her half as he ate the other She snatched it from him and thought "Oh brother, this guy has some nerve and he's also rude Why he didn't even show any gratitude".

She had never known when she had been so galled and sighed with relief when her flight was called. She gathered her belongings and headed for the gate Refusing to look back at the thieving ingrate. She boarded the plane and sank in her seat Then sought her book which was almost complete. As she reached in her baggage she gasped with surprise There was her bag of cookies in front of her eyes:

"If mine are here" she moaned with despair "Then the others were his and he tried to share"

"Too late to apologize she realized with grief" That she was the rude one, the ungrateful, the thief
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Postby chicken » Sat Sep 08, 2007 12:50 am

this is from Tony Hoagland:
<!--quoteo--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->Jet


Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth

and we soar up into the summer stars.
Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead,
bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
and old space suits with skeletons inside.
On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,

and it is good, a way of letting life
out of the box, uncapping the bottle
to let the effervescence gush
through the narrow, usually constricted neck.

And now the crickets plug in their appliances
in unison, and then the fireflies flash
dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation
for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex
someone is telling in the dark, though

no one really hears. We gaze into the night
as if remembering the bright unbroken planet
we once came from,
to which we will never
be permitted to return.
We are amazed how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we have.

<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
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Postby Truman Capote » Sat Sep 08, 2007 7:19 pm

This is by Jorge Luis Borges, I insist: TRY to get his book called FICTIONS.

Two english poems

I
The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,of things half given away, half withheld,of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are the illustrious toys you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life ...
I must get at you, somehow; I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile -- that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.

II
What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the jagged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts that living men have honoured in bronze: my father's father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother's grandfather --just twentyfour-- heading a charge of three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness or humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow --the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams, and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
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