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Archive for December, 2010

old pond

in an old pond
wind and shadow churn–
weeping willow

.
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Little Space of Mine

            To Ka. De.

Little lonely prince in deserted nights.

Sleep had abandoned my chattering mind.

I was in search of and I was in search of

Little space of mine in this spacious land.

Crazy adventures, endured tricks of luck

Had filled emptiness of my plenty time.

But I was assured that someday I’d find

Little space of mine in this spacious land.

How it happened? Whose dreams had come true?

Again, sleep got lost from my happy mind:

I’d found at last, I’d found, my God!

Little space of mine in this spacious land.

…And again midnight… And again lonesome…

Again sleep had left my chattering mind. –

I had lost, my God! I had lost, alas,

Little space of mine in this spacious land.

My neatly, charming, my lovely woman,

I know sleep will hide from us all the night

The day I’ll find you – this time for ever –

Little space of mine in this spacious land.

(Based on Armenian original of 1998).

Araik Margarian.
http://journals.aol.com/aramargar1/MyAmericanDream/

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Pomerriggio, Serra, Notte e Mattina

        Come with me, love, let the light lay us low
        in the glow of the late July afternoon
        shadows in fields of amber rye, unraked hay
        stretching east, whilst the west flows and shimmers    
        with midsummer heat, like a nest of writhing coral
        snakes.

        Come, let me smell the madness, the sun
        on your skin, the warm aroma of bread
        in the hearth of your hands. Let us stand
        you and I, over there, on that high open hill.
        Let our bare, sun-tanned feet feel the earth
        the hard, living earth. Let us stand with the sky
        in our hair.

        In the hold of your stare let me grow
        like the rising seeds of spring
        let me ripen like summer, like rye
        and sing
        with the dry prairie wind when the tall
        waves of grass fall like us:
        let me be your horizon.

                * * *

        Whose were the hands that hanged the harvest moon?
        Not yours. Not mine.
        How could the truth lie in the stubborn stillness of what was
        yesterday’s grass?  In us? night’s naked lovers
        arching to feel the cold of space on skin
        that like the ploughshare steel
        remembers still
        the heat of the summer days.

        How light the feeling of being alive!
        Be not afraid to crave, to breathe, to smell
        the age of heaven in the air
        for though death will
        divide and scatter us like hay
        yet we shall rise from seeds born of this earth-bound love
        shall breathe again, and time will flow
        forever in our veins.

                * * *

        Were I to paint your portrait in my mind,
        which image, of so many, should be chosen?
        When gaily you skipped down the cypress-lined
        byways, or when you stood among the frozen
        columns of light, with rainbows all around you?
        Or when conversing with the swans I found you,
        whiter than white in your lily-white whiteness?
        Or when you floated ‘cross the fields of brightness,
        lighter than light in your feather-light lightness?
        Or when too shy, too conscious of your charms,
        your naked breasts you covered with your arms?

        All this is past – and yet you still return,
        your radiant beauty burnt into my eyes.
        And though I’ve tried, I never could unlearn
        your face, your voice, the sweetness of your sighs
        lingering on, your flesh so soft, so warm,
        and every curve of your unearthly form:
        I can’t unlearn you. Even were I blind,
        I still would paint your portrait — in my mind.

                * * *

        You are my voice, in form and cause
        my chisel of air.
        So long as time rides on his laggard horse
        I’ll be a gilder of green clouds and birds.
        In me you are a glow-sculpted crowfoot, in a cloud
        over my lonely toil.    A living stone from which I cut
        my form, seen in an morning gale,
        a form whose flaming mane flared up on milky panes
        turned cold in the hand, like a star in a mould.
        You are the voice of stirrings and the dawn of hearing
        you grasp the music and the skill, you are the one which will  
        sprout from the drought-parched ground,
        a resin-spirit, a stalk of sound.

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Sunday 'Poetry' With 'jr sherman'

On this sunny summer Sunday, how ’bout another taste of
classic ‘poetry’ by ‘jr sherman’ from The Archives?

Today, we return to Robert’s ‘js silva’ period, as he
tries a contemporary socio-political commentary.

Note the haphazard attempts at an unmetered rhyme scheme
which occur at the end of each strophe:

,—————————————————–
|
|  From: j…@pge.com (js silva)
|  Subject: The Monsters In The Wheat c&c most welcome
|  Date: 1995/05/23
|  Message-ID: <rst.71.00493…@pge.com>#1/1
|  X-Deja-AN: 103089651
|  sender: n…@news01.pge.com
|  newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
|  
|  The Monsters In The Wheat
|  (for Oklahoma City, and all of us)
|  
|  so like the prince, hidden
|  spoke machiavellian
|  "strike at the heart"
|  the last refuge(of scoundrels)
|  begins its part
|  apart from the innocent,
|  rest them in peace,
|  "protect the musketry"
|  truly brave hearts
|  cease, to reason,
|  "i tell you this"
|  white sheets shout,
|  "this is what the glorious
|  patriot is all about."
|  
|  spent, innocent, they go to
|  kingdom come,
|  sanctified by the second
|  sacred gun
|  the final taste is
|  spent in a trickle of blood,
|  warnings, the torrent,
|  before the flood,
|  the childs eye
|  in the fiery gloom,
|  counting the fingers, left,
|  until the tick
|  of our doom,
|  cameras counted
|  a grieving national cost,
|  they grinned out from the wheat
|  of a country finally
|  lost
|  
|_____________________________________________________

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OT Criss Angel Mindfreak (damn)

Just saw the "Levitation" episode.

Geez…  He levitates himself and other people
several feet off the ground outdoors
in an open field, and on public streets
with dozens of people watching from all sides.

If you get A&E…

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The Ones That Got Away (Dennis Provoked Me)

- — -

Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
> Art wrote:

> > Renay St. Jam wrote:

> > Poets marched with everyone else.

> > Just like now.

> And some are shaking silly, and some are taking dares,
> But all of us are chilly when the steel eye stares,
> And some of us are cracker, and some of us are blood,
> But all of us are blacker in the foreign mud.

> >><haiku in waiting>

> > Quiet Afidus
> > Ghosts’ debris pave Roman Way
> > All roads lead to Death

> Most Zen haiku imply that; /no/ haiku would /say/ it.

True. It was an attempt at a play on "All roads lead to Rome."

Except the one that Hannibal took.

Those that got away were always like that. Was there ever more handsome
and dashing leaders of men than McClellan or Montgomery?

Carthage Was Erased

Here at the edge of it all is where
the buzzards spy the dead in your bloody wake
Here Gentle Afidus runs red for their hungry stare
While the Queen lies restless, helpless, and ready for you to take.

Can you win her to your roughcut, manly, wayward ways?
Can you sell her your own delusions of flawless being
Never was a man more clever,  never a hero from earlier days
as lovingly devoted: will she know your beauty from the seeing?

Never! Your beauty will not rend her resistance in twain
Never will she agree, never her delusions bend for your reflection
Take her, Young Man! Take her while her defenses wane
Take her now–and never, never hold for winning her affection

All Roads Lead To Rome, remember this to always keep
To turn away now is to forever after, /forever/ after /weep/.

http://www.elihu.envy.nu/aapc/fun/Hannibal1.jpg

7/31/05


Art

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REPORTED! A creative, ongoing gay/islamic rights violation

evil.  pure evil.  we have a few on our side, as aol has made it inaccessible using their browser, but i am afraid something else will have to be done against the website www.pissonliberals.com (and to the webmaster).  he advocates for the rape of feminists, for slavery to be reinstated, for gays to be drowned, and for tons of violence against humanity – but he candy-coats it in "fun" media such as song parodies, t-shirts, videos, etc.

now, i’m all for the freedom of speech, but i think this falls into george bush’s moronic statement, "there should be limits on free speech".  i am calling for anyone with a compassionate heart, to get in touch with me so that we may start a coalition against dylan.  that is the webmaster’s name, or so his website says.  we must fight for our rights.  my email is swf27tol…@yahoo.com.

sue whitefield

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Re: critique this poem please

"Renay" wrote

- — -

> Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
> > > EverLonging wrote:

> > >>Thanks!  I like that poem by Pound.  I can relate to it–writing does
> > >>take all of one’s brains!

> > > And even that isn’t enough.
> > > It takes your reader’s brains too.

> > Well.  Tommy Tosser actually seZ something about poultry worth
> > reading for once.

> I doubt it, but if anyone seZ anything it would be /him/.

> >    (Tommy will now go on to tell you how the reader’s brains dictate
> > the poet’s art and craft by dictating his nickels, when the fact is
> > that nickels do not dictate poets.  Nickels dictate priests.)

> And Jesus was a poet
> as he walked upon the water.
> He spent a long time watching
> from his lonely nickled tower.

> > >>I’ve gotten away from reading the canonical
> > >>poets because someone told me to read contemporary poets.  So I’ve
been
> > >>reading Robert Bly, James Wright, Mary Oliver, and Billy Collins.  All
> > >>great in their own right, but they are a lot more prosy than the old
> > >>masters.

> > > History will flush most of it. IMO. Always does.

> > Tommy seZ none of those are great (so do I, but that’s not the point;
> > the point is, what do /you/ say they are).

> I am *blithely ignorant* of most of those mentioned.
> What I’ve read of Billy Collins didn’t impress me much.
> SF Live105 DJ’s do better riffs. Bly produced something
> I kinda liked, but I’m tryin’ 2B more generous.

> I would prefer history sort it.

> Copyright issues make it harder to access recent poetry.

> …but as any marginal idiot can see, there is more good
> poetry than /most/ would care to read. I find plenty,
> though it requires sifting.

> >    Hint:  they are not great because they pander readers who don’t
> > use their brains.

> Don’t use or don’t have?

> In times past only the very *creme* of mankind /even/ got
> to read the droppings of poets.

> Since William Bullock things have changed.

> I mean, ‘ennis, you do understand the crunch of poetry with
> your life was set in motion by Bullock, mid-19th century?

> You may take morbid glee in his Frankensteinian move to shred
> himself in his monster.

> "Is /that/ not the poetic event of the 19th century?"

> >    I.e., they’ve abandoned poultry for the priesthood (Laureatecy of
> > whatever venue).

> No…

> Poetry became /published/ to the masses via all the evolving
> technologies. Plus the visual media tends to displace
> the auditory which displaced the written.

> Now, like a baby, you steal my picture and deface it
> because it is technologically easy, and you are a frustrated
> pissant that can’t sell poetry for a living.

> > >>What I love about older poems is the allusions to mythology.

> > Momentous (and less) history becomes mythology by being alluded to
> > too often and too incompletely.
> >    We’ve plenty of raw material for mythos right in the news, far
> > more indeed than the ancients dreamed of or could.

> Another /problem/ that faces *universal poetry*.

> > > Some…
> > > This one (by GMH) /more/ just plays
> > > with words/sounds…

> > > No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
> > > More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
> > > Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
> > > Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
> > > My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief
> > > Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing-
> > > Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked ‘No ling-
> > > ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief’.

> > >   O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
> > > Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
> > > May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small
> > > Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
> > > Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
> > > Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

> > Cf. how much of this comes from the contorted Donne.
> >    (P.Ssst:  Hopkins has better ears.)

> Death: You’re not proud, or so the poem goes.
> Still cubs in foxholes make their latest plea
> And chatter on like fools at Sunday Tea.
> Why they, in fear, will shun your blithe repose
> I cannot tell. And isn’t it the rose
> Whose /best/ is brief, then withers by degree
> And soon into the heap of history?
> Not I, not me, no – I’m not one of those
>   That kicks and shouts "Unfair, extend my time".
> O Smiling Scythe, your Welcome carpet’s set.
> I’d call on you right now, and drop a dime
> If you would come to claim me in your net.
> So I won’t think you deal me such a crime:
> ‘To live forever /is/ the greater threat.’
> …better logic.

Well said, Renay.


The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
project <http://tinyurl.com/bev5f> [B.E.L. studio remix]

"If I gave a whim what "better" men than they had to say about sniffy
sonnets, Ida never writ in the first place."
-Dennis M. Hammes, 2005.

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I tire of your foolishness

How the years lie beautiful upon your face
Each day new beauty bringing there
Who young looked younger, each day embrace
The wisdom of the fading year

As much to love your youthful breast
Your eyes alive, complexion clear
The clothes in which so much was dressed
The wisdom of the fading year

And as each line is drawn upon
Your face once filled with youthful glow
Another year of insight’s sown
Upon my vision’s faltering row

Come, lie next to me when day is done
Two pieces fit with age and use
There we will whisper softly then
Of memory and comprehend

Together we need never fear
The wisdom of the fading year

*I* am Spartacus
or
Henry VIII
I am…
I am…

"Tis true the stuff I bring for sale
  is not so brisk a brew as ale:
  Out of a stem that scored the hand
  I wrung it in a weary land."
        -Housman

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Gary is just as sick you, Chuck. Happy now?

You are both uberpervs with proclivities for barely pubescent teens.
Now check out Mandy Moore’s ass:

http://www.findaceleb.com/girls//m/moore-mandy/000053.jpg

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