The poetry thread
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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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@George-K said in The poetry thread:
Why did they choose Emily Dickinson I wonder? Lots of poets used that meter at the time, it was very common.
And it came from music.The meter came from music. It's not a coincidence, there's a direct and intentional connection.
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A favourite from my childhood...
Matilda, Who Told Lies and Was Burned to Death (1907)
Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,
It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes;Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,
Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,
Attempted to Believe Matilda:
The effort very nearly killed her,
And would have done so, had not She
Discovered this Infirmity.For once, towards the Close of Day,
Matilda, growing tired of play,
And finding she was left alone,
Went tiptoe to the Telephone
And summoned the Immediate Aid
Of London's Noble Fire-Brigade.Within an hour the Gallant Band
Were pouring in on every hand,
From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow
With Courage high and Hearts a-glow
They galloped, roaring through the Town
'Matilda's House is Burning Down!'
Inspired by British Cheers and Loud
Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,
They ran their ladders through a score
Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;
And took Peculiar Pains to Souse
The Pictures up and down the House,
Until Matilda's Aunt succeeded
In showing them they were not needed;
And even then she had to pay
To get the Men to go away!It happened that a few Weeks later
Her Aunt was off to the Theatre
To see that Interesting Play
The Second Mrs Tanqueray.
She had refused to take her Niece
To hear this Entertaining Piece:
A Deprivation Just and Wise
To Punish her for Telling Lies.That Night a Fire did break out-
You should have heard Matilda Shout!
You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,
And throw the window up and call
To People passing in the Street-
(The rapidly increasing Heat
Encouraging her to obtain
Their confidence)-but all in vain!
For every time She shouted 'Fire!'
They only answered 'Little Liar'!
And therefore when her Aunt returned,
Matilda, and the House, were Burned. -
A favourite from my childhood...
Matilda, Who Told Lies and Was Burned to Death (1907)
Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,
It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes;Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,
Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,
Attempted to Believe Matilda:
The effort very nearly killed her,
And would have done so, had not She
Discovered this Infirmity.For once, towards the Close of Day,
Matilda, growing tired of play,
And finding she was left alone,
Went tiptoe to the Telephone
And summoned the Immediate Aid
Of London's Noble Fire-Brigade.Within an hour the Gallant Band
Were pouring in on every hand,
From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow
With Courage high and Hearts a-glow
They galloped, roaring through the Town
'Matilda's House is Burning Down!'
Inspired by British Cheers and Loud
Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,
They ran their ladders through a score
Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;
And took Peculiar Pains to Souse
The Pictures up and down the House,
Until Matilda's Aunt succeeded
In showing them they were not needed;
And even then she had to pay
To get the Men to go away!It happened that a few Weeks later
Her Aunt was off to the Theatre
To see that Interesting Play
The Second Mrs Tanqueray.
She had refused to take her Niece
To hear this Entertaining Piece:
A Deprivation Just and Wise
To Punish her for Telling Lies.That Night a Fire did break out-
You should have heard Matilda Shout!
You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,
And throw the window up and call
To People passing in the Street-
(The rapidly increasing Heat
Encouraging her to obtain
Their confidence)-but all in vain!
For every time She shouted 'Fire!'
They only answered 'Little Liar'!
And therefore when her Aunt returned,
Matilda, and the House, were Burned.@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
A favourite from my childhood...
Matilda, Who Told Lies and Was Burned to Death (1907)
Classic. Always loved that one, too.
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Here's something that's interesting. This is from Lokasenna (Loki's Argument). Here's the original:
Veit ek, ef fyr útan værak,
svá sem fyr innan emk,
Ægis höll of kominn,
höfuð þitt bæra ek í hendi mér;
lykak þér þat fyr lygi.Snjallr ertu í sessi,
skal-at-tu svá gera,
Bragi bekkskrautuðr;
vega þú gakk, ef þú vreiðr séir;
hyggsk vætr hvatr fyrir.Yes yes I know "what the fuck etc." Here's a translation:
Bragi said:
If we were outside, and you had not come inside Aegir's hall, I would be holding your severed head. I'd pay you back that way for all your lies.
Loki said:
You're brave while you're sitting. But you wouldn't do that, Bragi, the benchwarmer. Go ahead and strike me, if you're so angry. A brave man wouldn't be afraid to do it."Benchwarmer" is an epithet that's about a thousand years old. Has a slightly different meaning now but that's how far back it goes. It's an old, old kenning.
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@Mik said in The poetry thread:
Do tell..benchwarmer? I couldn't find anything over a couple googles..
Yeah, y'know, someone on the team who doesn't play in the games.
In this context, it means that you're on the boat for the raiding party (they'd bring benches with them on the longboats to double as a storage locker and a seat for rowing), but you don't get out to fight, you just sit there.
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Yeats could certainly see what others couldn't.
Please love yourself.
