The poetry thread
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@Mik said in The poetry thread:
They were also the propagandists of their time.
Yeah. They were their period's propagandists, news anchors, historians, musicians, actors and priests, all in one.
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Another by Malcolm Guite. Very much enjoying his writing.
He's completed an Arthurian cycle he's hoping to publish in a year or so, and it's fantastic. This one is from his second book of poetry.
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Another by Malcolm Guite. Very much enjoying his writing.
He's completed an Arthurian cycle he's hoping to publish in a year or so, and it's fantastic. This one is from his second book of poetry.
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False promises
Though clowns and blasphemers alike proclaim
Machines can hide the weakness of their words,
No heretic has ever cured the lame
And software can’t make diamonds out of turds.—written by me, just now, because I felt like it.
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@Aqua-Letifer , you are quite talented.
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Death asked me to join him for dinner
so I slipped into my favorite black dress
that I had been saving for a special occasion
and let him walk me to our candlelit tryst.
He ordered a ribeye, extra rare
I ordered two desserts and red wine
and then I sipped
and wondered
why he looked so familiar
and smelled like earth and memory.
He felt like a place both faraway
and deep within my body
A place that whispers to me
on the crisp autumn breeze
along the liminal edges of dusk and dawn
somewhere between dancing
and stillness.
He looked at me
with the endless night sky in his eyes
and asked
‘Did you live your life, my love?’
As I swirled my wine in its glass
I wondered If I understood the thread I wove into the greater fabric
If I loved in a way that was deep and freeing
If I let pain and grief carve me into something more grateful
If I made enough space to be in awe that flowers exist
and take the time to watch the honeybees
drink their sweet nectar
I wondered what the riddles of regret and longing
had taught me
and if I realized just how
beautiful and insignificant and monstrous and small we are
for the brief moment that we are here
before we all melt back down
into ancestors of the land.
Death watched me lick buttercream from my fingers
As he leaned in close and said
‘My darling, it’s time.’
So I slipped my hand into his
as he slowly walked me home.
I took a deep breath as he leaned in close
for the long kiss goodnight
and I felt a soft laugh leave my lips
as his mouth met mine
because I never could resist a man
with the lust for my soul in his eyes
and a kiss that makes my heart stop.~ Gina Puorro: www.ginapuorro.com
Author's note: A playful love poem to Death, because I want to remember to relate to it as a part of life, and in ways that exist outside of violence and brutality.
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@Mik Not really my thing but I applaud the effort and I like the idea.
It's National Poetry Month and I don't care. Because for me every month is National Poetry Month.
I started doing this thing. I had a different idea for buying the book, but, well, now I'm doing this.
Blackout poetry (sometimes called found poetry) is taking an existing text and hacking it up with a sharpie so that the extant words create a poem. Some folks go further by clipping out the words so they can be rearranged, but that's too far for me. I like the added constraint of working within the order the words were in originally.
Anyway, I bought a reprinted first edition of Alice in Wonderland and I'm making one long, continuous blackout poem with the book. I get through about a page a day.
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@Mik said in The poetry thread:
That’s an interesting approach. I’ll perhaps take a crack at it.
You should! It's fun and really accessible.
The only trick to it is it's more of a listening exercise than a writing one. Gotta recognize what kind of things the text suggests to you.
I find it's more successful the more fun you have with it.
Those weird Life magazine special issues on Elvis's ghost and haunted cities make for great material. I actually buy the stuff in the checkout lane now.
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Not really a poem, but I came across this on iTunes for my drive to work, and thought it was wonderful...
Link to video -
The night was dark, the moon was high
We were alone, just she and I
Her hair was soft, her eyes were blue
I just knew what I had to do.
I placed my hand upon her breast
I did it well, I did my best
I felt the thumping of my heart, as slowly her legs spread apart
It’s over with, it’s done now
My first experience, milking a cow. -
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