POETRY IS COMPETITION

Poetry is competition! brutal War & holy Mission
'Gainst the Evil opposition that around our Fortress lies
Armed with pen we force the Battle, poised upon the Charger's saddle
Swords & pikes & shields we rattle! to the Stars we lift our cries
Till the Vault of Heaven answers, till we conquer Tears & Sighs

Bow not beneath this dreadful Fate! why turn the cheek? why bar the Gate?
Why cower in this mortal State and die with false Tranquility?
If we must fall, let's fall like Men! and curse the gods for letting in
This wretched Death, this Timeless Sin, which robs us of our Dignity
To arms, I say, against this Doom which presses Irrevocably

So cry for Joy against all Odds, and scream in Rage against the gods
For Love! for Strength! for Victory! for blessed Immortality
For Life so Sacred, yes I say! and Death's a bitter Price to pay
For giving sport to gods at Play who gaze with Scorn on Me & Thee
They gaze with Malice & with Spite on mighty Souls who would be Free

--Me

TJ: Thank you. :o)

I'm a pipe pipe pipe pipe pipe puffin' man
And I puff puff puff it when I can
And it's pipe-puffin' pipe-puffin' time again

So I clean it up & I blow it out
And I'd rather be puffin' than watch Jackie Chan
As only a pipe-puffin' puffin' man can

So I pack it full & I light it up
And I take me a puff like a pipe-puffin' man
An' I reckon that makes me a pipe-puffin' fan

--me

If battles were waged on your friendly shore
You wouldn’t be friends with war anymore
If mothers were slain on Broad St. & Main
You’d quickly discern that war is insane

But you will not see the blood on the floor
And you will not smell the death & the gore
And you will not feel the gut-wrenching pain
And you notice not the babe’s oozing brain

What cowards you are, who choose to ignore
The evil that stalks from Washington’s door
What weaklings you are, who choose to refrain
From speaking the truth your neighbors disdain

--me

Vietnam Vet with a cardboard sign
Sitting there by the left turn line
Flag on the wheelchair flapping in the breeze
One leg missing, both hands free
No one's paying much mind to him
The V.A. budget's stretched so thin
And there's more comin' home from the Mideast war
We can't make it here anymore

That big ol' building was the textile mill
It fed our kids and it paid our bills
But they turned us out and they closed the doors
We can't make it here anymore

See all those pallets piled up on the loading dock
They're just gonna set there till they rot
'Cause there's nothing to ship, nothing to pack
Just busted concrete and rusted tracks
Empty storefronts around the square
There's a needle in the gutter and glass everywhere
You don't come down here 'less you're looking to score
We can't make it here anymore

The bar's still open but man it's slow
The tip jar's light and the register's low
The bartender don't have much to say
The regular crowd gets thinner each day

Some have maxed out all their credit cards
Some are working two jobs and living in cars
Minimum wage won't pay for a roof, won't pay for a drink
If you gotta have proof just try it yourself Mr. CEO
See how far 5.15 an hour will go
Take a part time job at one of your stores
Bet you can't make it here anymore

High school girl with a bourgeois dream
Just like the pictures in the magazine
She found on the floor of the laundromat
A woman with kids can forget all that
If she comes up pregnant what'll she do
Forget the career, forget about school
Can she live on faith? live on hope?
High on Jesus or hooked on dope
When it's way too late to just say no
You can't make it here anymore

Now I'm stocking shirts in the Wal-Mart store
Just like the ones we made before
'Cept this one came from Singapore
I guess we can't make it here anymore

Should I hate a people for the shade of their skin
Or the shape of their eyes or the shape I'm in
Should I hate 'em for having our jobs today
No I hate the men sent the jobs away
I can see them all now, they haunt my dreams
All lily white and squeaky clean
They've never known want, they'll never know need
Their sh@# don't stink and their kids won't bleed
Their kids won't bleed in the da$% little war
And we can't make it here anymore

Will work for food
Will die for oil
Will kill for power and to us the spoils
The billionaires get to pay less tax
The working poor get to fall through the cracks
Let 'em eat jellybeans let 'em eat cake
Let 'em eat sh$%, whatever it takes
They can join the Air Force, or join the Corps
If they can't make it here anymore

And that's how it is
That's what we got
If the president wants to admit it or not
You can read it in the paper
Read it on the wall
Hear it on the wind
If you're listening at all
Get out of that limo
Look us in the eye
Call us on the cell phone
Tell us all why

In Dayton, Ohio
Or Portland, Maine
Or a cotton gin out on the great high plains
That's done closed down along with the school
And the hospital and the swimming pool
Dust devils dance in the noonday heat
There's rats in the alley
And trash in the street
Gang graffiti on a boxcar door
We can't make it here anymore

-- James McMurtry

Welcome Budding Poets

The board is here
So have no fear
I see no ghost
So make a post!

:o)

[Posted by yours truly under my old nic.]

So, I'm waiting....

Tuesday: Thanks for the link. A young man who could speak to the heart of things. So rare....

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
-----
[Translation: "It is noble and glorious to die for your mother country."]

-- Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

Tuesday: lol Good for her. Lord knows she can do better than Jason....

Tuesday: What was Jason thinking? Bachelorette #3 was the prime choice. (This is a shot in the dark, as I haven't actually seen an episode...)

Tuesday: Enjoy the Bachelor. You may get new inspiration. Or at least some well-earned relaxation.

Tuesday: I can't top that. lol :o)

Tuesday: lol

But now can he drink
Without causing a stink
And sleep like a babe in his pee

Tuesday: To continue...

By "us" he meant "me"
And so couldn't see
His mirror reflecting a Wus

Tuesday: To finish your poem...

He read from Pet-Goat
While buildings were smote
And woudn't get off of his tush

Tuesday: You're being too kind to the man. lol

Tuesday: Yes, I don't think Obama would appreciate what he might consider an unsympathetic caricature of himself. I think Mutwa's point is that a president, in his official capacity & because of the power temporarily ceded to him, is more than a man. He can do great things, for good or evil. Now we are straying into politics. lol But, naturally, I lot of poetry is political, even great poetry (I think of Blake, one of my favorites).

Tuesday: I agree with you. I came across it and decided it was worth putting up here. I know I'm not on the Right...but sometimes I wonder if I'm on the Left either. I think maybe I'm on the Outer Fringe. lol

"The Zulu shaman, or sanusi, Credo Mutwa, has written a poem to express his thoughts on what he sees as the true nature of Barack Obama and the agenda for Africa and the world that he represents."

An actor walks upon the floodlit stage of life
wearing a mask of an angel beneath a demon's gown.
Pretence smiles upon the crowded hall of life
holding out hope as bright as it is false.
Son of a woman in whose veins flows the blood
of ancient Ireland and dark Africa’s plains.
You are Obama, nick-named the standing king
You are Barack, oh, son born to deceive
The suffering hoards of Africa look up to you,
See a black saviour where nought but a Judas strides.
An entrapper of nations, bringer of dismal war
Behind the robes and the nylon wings of hope
Oh, may those who look upon you, see you as you are.
May those who hope in you behold you as you be
A prince deceitful to bring down Africa’s shrines
A siren who leads Africa’s ships onto rocks of obliteration.
Your rule my lord will not be one of peace
Your reign my king will not be one of smiles
Even as we speak in caves both dark and dank
Enraged fanatics plot your dark demise
They will put around your head a bloodwet martyr’s crown.
Oh black Kennedy following the one before
May God forgive thee and thy fiery spouse
As you walk in silence from the stage of life
Barack Obama, blessed son, Oh standing king.

TJ: YW :o)

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

--Dylan Thomas

There's room at the top, they are telling you still
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like the folks on the hill
-- John Lennon

Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land, -
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?

Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!

And their sun does never shine,
And their fields are bleak and bare,
And their ways are filled with thorns,
It is eternal winter there.

For where'er the sun does shine,
And where'er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appal.

--Blake

She’s not sexy
She’s not romantic
She’s not good in bed

She’s only beautiful

She’s not imaginative
She’s not perceptive
She’s not discriminating

She’s only a trophy on display

She’s not magical
She’s not soothing
She’s not mysterious

She’s only a moving statue, unaware, tragic, hollow

If you think you're gonna lose
Choose booze & drink shots in twos

I once killed a snake
With a rake
By the lake
But did the snake have the rake?
Or did it just fake?

To jump
Over a stump
Without getting a bump
On your rump

Haridaspal: Astute, concise, lucid. Which is why I smoke.

ΜīήďSрŷ: See, I told you. lol

ΜīήďSрŷ: (gulp)

ΜīήďSрŷ: Thanks for compliment but you've opened me up now to attacks from all sides. lol The Picture of Dorian Gray is one of those must-reads I haven't read yet. Will make a note to get it soon.

رضا: I'll ask Harley.

ΜīήďSрŷ: You got me. Now that proves I'm not a genius. LOL

ΜīήďSрŷ: I'm no genius. lol Would like to know.

All of my poetry rhymes & none of it is any good. lol

رضا: Trying to follow the pronunciation is probably more than I can handle. lol I'm certain it's very beautiful & the poem is profound, speaking of a deep connection to the land...something so many of us have lost.

رضا: You are right, Reza, it's beautifully written. BTW...just checked out your profile & I really like it.

ΜīήďSрŷ: Agreed.

Nomad: Unspeakably good my friend.

Stardust: Excellent.

And right on the money.

Nomad: Awesome as always.

And so true.

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


--T.S. Eliot: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

by William Blake

1To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
2All pray in their distress;
3And to these virtues of delight
4Return their thankfulness.


5For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
6Is God, our father dear,
7And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
8Is Man, his child and care.


9For Mercy has a human heart,
10Pity a human face,
11And Love, the human form divine,
12And Peace, the human dress.


13Then every man, of every clime,
14That prays in his distress,
15Prays to the human form divine,
16Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.


17And all must love the human form,
18In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
19Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
20There God is dwelling too.