Les Murray, great Australian poet, author of the wonderful Fredy Neptune

Here's a poem called...



starkitty, you might be interested in Murray's thoughts on writing poetry:

http://www.lesmurray.org/defence.htm






heh
[This message was edited Fri May 14 8:14:25 2004 by 2the9s]

Still I Rise


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Maya Angelou

Where the Sidewalk Ends


There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Shel Silverstein

starkitty said:

Lyrics ARE poems, set to music.

in just-


in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's spring
and the goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

ee cummings

2the9s said:

Thanks 9s, I dig it, I'll check it out.

(And thank you for behaving)

LittlePill said:

Let's not argue semantics, shan't we?

butterfli25 said:

I love that book.

Not poetry, but I like it and it's stayed with me. From a piece called Ugly Duckling by Cary Tennis on salon.com:

"Frankly, I'd rather be the one up there with the microphones and the flashbulbs. I've got a lot to say if they would only ask me. But they're not asking. So I must work at what I work at. I must conjure up gratitude out of the plentiful air. With me, of course, it is not a question of my beauty, for I am a grown man with a florid Cornish mug, crooked teeth and drooping eyelids, lucky only in that lines of character improve a man's face. With me it is a question of fame and preeminence, of praise and acclaim, of wrapping myself in a cloak of cashmere words like swaddling clothes. Oh, it's an eternal infantile hunger, impossible to assuage, as I've known for many years, but that doesn't make the hunger abate. No, it's hunger and it's self-regard and it's a lack of gratitude for the sky."

starkitty said:

Potato/potato

starkitty said:

he was my daughter's favorite author when she was little.

SISTERHOOD

I am a military wife, a member of that sisterhood of women who have had the courage to watch their men march into battle and the strength to survive until their return. Our sorority knows no rank for we earn our membership with a marriage license, traveling over miles or over nation to begin a new life with our soldier husbands.
Within days we turn a barren, echoing building into a home and though our quarters are inevitably white walled and unprepared, we decorate with the treasurers of our travels, for we shop the markets of the world.

Using hammer and nail, we tack our pictures to the wall and our roots, to the floor as firmly as if we had lived there for a lifetime. We hold a family together by the bootstraps and raise the best of the "brats" installing into them the motto, "Home is togetherness," whether motel, guesthouse, apartment or duplex.

As military wives, we soon realize that the only good in "good-bye" is the "hello again". For as salesmen for freedom, our husbands are often on the road, leaving us behind for a week, a month, an assignment. During the separation we guard the home front, existing till the homecoming.

Unlike civilian counterparts, we measure time not by age but by tours married at Tinker, a baby at Elmendorf, a promotion in Korea. We plant trees and never see them grow tall, work on projects completed long after our departures, and enhance our community for the betterment of those who come after us. We leave apart of ourselves at every stop.

Through experience we have learned to pack a suitcase, a car or hold baggage and live indefinitely, from the patches we have sewn and silver we have shined, our hands are always ready to help those around us.

Women of peace, we pray for a world in harmony, for the flag that leads our men into battle. Will also blanket them in death. Yet we are an optimistic group, thinking of the good and forgetting the bad, cherishing yesterday while anticipating tomorrow.

Never rich by monetary standards, our hearts are overflowing with a wealth of experience common only to those united by the special tradition of military life. We pass on this legacy to every military bride, welcoming her with outstretched arms, with love and friendship, from one sister to another, sharing in the bounty of our unique, fulfilling military way of life.

Written & © by Debbie Guisti

the wheels on the bus go

round n round

round n round

round n round

Toilet

I wonder will I speak to the girl
sitting opposite me on this train.
I wonder will my mouth open and say,
'Are you going all the way
to Newcastle?' or 'Can I get you a coffee?'
Or will it simply go 'aaaaah'
as if it had a mind of its own?

Half closing eggshell blue eyes,
she runs her hand through her hair
so that it clings to the carriage cloth,
then slowly frees itself.
She finds a brush and her long fair hair
flies back and forth like an African fly-whisk,
making me feel dizzy.

Suddenly, without warning,
she packs it all away in a rubber band
because I have forgotten to look out
the window for a moment.
A coffee is granted permission
to pass between her lips
and does so eagerly, without fuss.

A tunnel finds us looking out the window
into one another's eyes. She leaves her seat
but I know that she likes me
because the light saying, 'TOILET'
has come on, a sign that she is lifting
her skirt, taking down her pants
and peeing all over my face.


by Hugo Williams


[This message was edited Fri May 14 13:26:54 2004 by TheFrog]

TheFrog said:

I was thinking, 'this is beautiful' and the end made me go like this

Note on Intellectuals - W.H.Auden

'To the man-in-the-street, who, I'm sorry to say
Is a keen observer of life,
The word Intellectual suggests straight away
A man who's untrue to his wife.'

.....

The Expiration - John Donne

'So, so, breake off this last lamenting kisse,
Which sucks two soules, and vapours both away,
Turne thou ghost that way, and let mee turne this,
And let our selves benight our happiest day,
We ask'd none leave to love; nor will we owe
And, so cheape a death, as saying, Goe;

Goe; and if that word have not quite kil'd thee,
Ease mee with death, by bidding mee goe too.
Oh, if it have, let my word worke on mee,
And a just office on a murderer doe.
Except it be too late, to kill me so,
Being double dead, going, and bidding, goe.'


.....

A lament - John Clare

'The sun looks from a cloudy sky,
On yellow bleaching reeds, -
The river streams run muddy by,
Among the flags and reeds.
And nature seems so lost and coy,
All silent and alone;
Left here without a single joy,
Or love to call my own.

How mournful now the river seems,
Adown the vale to run;
That ran so sweet in my young dreams,
And glittered in the sun.
Now cold and dead, the meadow lies,
And muddy runs the stream:
The lark on drooping pinion flies, -
And spoiled is pleasures dream.

The wind comes moaning through the
trees, -
No maiden passes by.
And all the summer melodies, -
Are uttered in a sigh.
On many a knoll I set me down,
Beneath a silent sky,
And of the past all seem to frown,
And pass in sorrow by.'



Beautiful.

[This message was edited Sat May 15 18:58:06 2004 by TheFrog]

Two Poems:


If You Don't Force It

He's talking about interpolations
riffs that come in the midst

of action, responding to the line,
accommodating the blues

and note neglecting the melody
refusing to smother beauty

with too many chords
to show off is to bungle

the melody with chordal blocks
not building anything to your baby

hiding the melody
like only the young can do

Lester Young would watch the dancers
moving into his vernaculars

with rhythms augmenting the melody
Herschel would set the pace

Pres would follow
Count would comp time

as though you could improve
on stride piano

Ben Webster could do stride
when you get possessed with wild chords

tie your left hand behind your back
then play the melody with one finger

on your right hand:
put the melody on your heart

for Ray Brown



Release: Kind of Blue

Miles (being ahead)
came in early

with the sketches
he did not mention Japanese

visual art
though Bill Evans did

his liner notes
stretching each brushstroke

as metaphor
for playing together

Because you cannot go back
resonance builds

new material
at a recording session

only once
in a lifetime

For these players
five settings

and a figure
who asked of us

to do this
perfectly

as if to play live
alone in a group

Miles asked
we answered



Michael S. Harper
Songlines in Michaeltree:
New and Collected Poems
University of Illinois Press

What That?
(by me)

Do you know What?
Why, I know him personally
He lives in my house
He’s a bit strange, though

I can’t say, “What am I going to do?”
He gets afraid and backs away from me
Far away

I get frustrated sometimes and say, “What in the hell?”
He thinks I’m accusing him of being a demon
Silly demon

Sometimes people say his name in a stupid tone: “Duh....What?”
He gets annoyed with those kinds of people
Stupid people

What does my wife think of What?
She doesn’t
She thinks of That...she is a friend of What

We all went out one night and someone said, “That is beautiful!”
That gets a lot of compliments
Many compliments

That also gets a lot of insults like “That has to be an idiot.”
That is very self-conscientious
Poor That

When I finish cooking us all supper, I yell “What That!”
For some reason I get strange looks at the food I cook
Bizarre looks

Once I was with What and I said, “Screw that!”
So he did
Now What and That are having a baby

Don’t ask for the baby’s name

raw

ingredients

become

dinner.




fin'

This Morning


I am no longer meeting with losers
Those who carry on over long drinks
About what they are not doing
Those with endless explanations
Full of detail

Here is the first step that knows
Where the next step is going
The necktie that rings with authority
The first splash of water over my lips

At last the rain is coming
A crop which will not fail me
New leaves poking through ecstatic branches

And women in white dresses
Whose soft pleats hold the light
On my side of the street
This fine and friendly morning


Elliot Figman

primal


beautiful man
summon my primal with your voice
enter my bloodstream like a drug
and make me numb

i have no will
your voice summons, my primal responds
coaxed forth like a wild animal from its lair
coaxed forth to meet yours
yours to meet mine
primals combine
forcefully, almost violent
our primals combine
intertwine

this was not ours to decide
this is bigger than us
this is lust
personified

our primals combine
space distance denied
we become unified
compounded intertwined
succumb to the tide
let go

we fall.

now
numb, raw
our truth exposed
we resume ourselves
primals satisfied
withdraw back to their lairs
their place inside
quieted, still

until

you summon once more
and i lose
control.

-jmh
8-26-2003

A Lesson, Acceptance,
Alone, Angel,
Forgive Me, Bill of Rights,
Don't Cry for Me, Don't,
Feelings, Good Stuff,
I Saw You, I tried,
Just a Reminder, Like The Sea,
Listen, Little Me,
Meet My Friend, Positives,
Self Acceptance, Self-Esteem,
Shame and Self Blame, Something to Share,
The Sea, Tips on Healing Journey,
Two Sides, Walking on The Shore,
When Tomorrow Starts Without Me

Spelling
Margaret Atwood

My daughter plays on the floor
with plastic letters,
red, blue & hard yellow,

learning how to spell,
spelling,
how to make spells.



I wonder how many women
denied themselves daughters,
closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtains
so they could mainline words.



A child is not a poem,
a poem is not a child.
There is no either / or.
However.



I return to the story
of the woman caught in the war
& in labour, her thighs tied
together by the enemy
so she could not give birth.

Ancestress: the burning witch,
her mouth covered by leather
to strangle words.

A word after a word
after a word is power.



At the point where language falls away
from the hot bones, at the point
where the rock breaks open and darkness
flows out of it like blood, at
the melting point of granite
when the bones know
they are hollow & the word
splits & doubles & speaks
the truth & the body
itself becomes a mouth.

This is a metaphor.



How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,
your first naming, your first name,
your first word.

Variation On the Word Sleep
Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

Fate
Always delivering a twist
Sending us on journeys missed
Dealing us blows on either side
An enduring love calls to me
Distant voices all I see
Telling me it's all been lies
The cold winds make us shiver
But a light sends us to the River
And along its shores we lie
Fate takes us on a ride
From her neither of us can hide
As under the stars we both die

Interrogation
Sophie Cabot Black

When you have me as I'm standing
Against a wall, my sex becomes
Suddenly agnostic; strange new words
Slip out, your name mentioned twice.

This is not a careful time.
These bodies that have collected love,
That have closely followed the goals
Of line or curve, are becoming

Sentimental. We wander in and out
Of each other's mouths. I keep thinking
You're asking me something. Light
Pours in, hangs like a valuable stone above us.

I lose words remembering to speak.
You press into my skin for veins, finger
By finger, your eyes blank and glazed.
My eyes start to empty too, become

Exactly like yours, until all there is
Is a heart, each beat rendering the last silent.

The Lost Baby Poem
Lucille Clifton

the time i dropped your almost body down
down to meet the waters under the city
and run one with the sewage to the sea
what did i know about waters rushing back
what did i know about drowning
or being drowned

you would have been born into winter
in the year of the disconnected gas
and no car we would have made the thin
walk over genesee hill into the canada wind
to watch you slip like ice into strangers' hands
you would have fallen naked as snow into winter
if you were here i could tell you these
and some other things

if i am ever less than a mountain
for your definite brothers and sisters
let the rivers pour over my head
let the sea take me for a spiller
of seas let black men call me stranger
always for your never named sake

Sex Without Love
Sharon Olds

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health—just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.

For my froggy:

Ogden Nash - The Cow

The cow is of the bovine ilk;
One end is moo, the other, milk.

Silence, Emptiness, And Confusion
by Bek

Silence builds an awful wreckage of a girl
It feeds on loneliness and creates a void
Gray shadows haunt and torment and torture
A teenager is stricken and destroyed

There is no sound of laughter or happiness here
The little one has thrown in the towel today
Somber, melancholy moods decay the soul
It is futile to hope and dream and pray

Emptiness builds a home in this woman
In this girl, this child where hollows have bred
A deepening sea of nowhereness consumes
And eats away at every connecting thread

Confusion feeds like a savage inside her,
Leaving nothing considered worthy remains
Destined to walk through life less ordinary
Alone, exiled, different and disdained.