Sunday, March 30, 2008
Listen closely...
OK - your poem starts tomorrow, but remember - its the first words you HEAR and the last words you SPEAK. Don't get confused and just used what was said to you. Your words are half the poem. Good luck!
Friday, March 28, 2008
Just a quick intermission....
Let us lay down these ground rules now and forever - you may ask anything that you have a question about and you may answer any question presented to you - AND those two things will be interpreted as being helpful only. This medium can lead itself to interpretation that is false. SO....we will all expect only the best of one another, as I am sure we all have only each other's best interest in mind. I am so thankful to have the input of each and every poet here. You all have given me a great gift, and I hope that I have given a little something back to you. The world mourns the fact your poems are not heard by everyone. Their loss is my gain. Thank you.
Monica's quote...
Thank you Monica, for joining us...and you are NOT late! People, feel free to submit at any time. I can't say it enough!
******************
by Monica
Sorry it took so long for me to do this assignment. I didn't have the poem I wanted to quote, so I had to wait for Amazon to deliver it.
It's called "Serenade" by James Merrill. Although born rich, Merrill never has given off any pretense that seems to come with money. He always seems very "real" to me, just a normal guy going through life. His work I think reflects that, and at the same time goes past reality and becomes achingly beautiful. The poem opens thus:
Here's your letter the old portable
Pecked out so passionately as to crack
The larynx.
This is the personification of the typewriter used to write a note to Merrill by a loved one. This is important because a writer's medium is sort of an extension of oneself, and so to give human qualities (emotion, even!) seems essential and natural.
The poem ends with a similar treatment of the very paper that love note was written on. More importantly, though, the action of the light transforming the page into a sky view transfers an eternal quality to the written word. That page quite possibly outlived the person who typed it.
Heard now
In his original setting--voice and reeds--
As music for a god, your page
Asks to be held so that the lamp shines through
And stars appear instead of periods.
Why this speaks to me is why I've always considered myself to be a writer. Words - spoken and written - hold such power, and weilding such power brings vitality. They are a life force for me, and one of the few things that have brought me joy continuously throughout the years.
******************
by Monica
Sorry it took so long for me to do this assignment. I didn't have the poem I wanted to quote, so I had to wait for Amazon to deliver it.
It's called "Serenade" by James Merrill. Although born rich, Merrill never has given off any pretense that seems to come with money. He always seems very "real" to me, just a normal guy going through life. His work I think reflects that, and at the same time goes past reality and becomes achingly beautiful. The poem opens thus:
Here's your letter the old portable
Pecked out so passionately as to crack
The larynx.
This is the personification of the typewriter used to write a note to Merrill by a loved one. This is important because a writer's medium is sort of an extension of oneself, and so to give human qualities (emotion, even!) seems essential and natural.
The poem ends with a similar treatment of the very paper that love note was written on. More importantly, though, the action of the light transforming the page into a sky view transfers an eternal quality to the written word. That page quite possibly outlived the person who typed it.
Heard now
In his original setting--voice and reeds--
As music for a god, your page
Asks to be held so that the lamp shines through
And stars appear instead of periods.
Why this speaks to me is why I've always considered myself to be a writer. Words - spoken and written - hold such power, and weilding such power brings vitality. They are a life force for me, and one of the few things that have brought me joy continuously throughout the years.
A poetry experiment for Friday School
OK, Poets, let's try an experiement. It's going to require a little different effort. This upcoming week, I want you to record the first words you hear that morning and the last words you speak that night. Start on Monday, end on Thursday night - so that should give us all an eight line poem. I hope this will be enlightening, and let us hear how poetic our lives really are. Have a fantastic weekend!
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The teacher becomes the student...
Kate is the one who inspired last week's assignment, so she gets her own post, and as I know how generous she is, I know she won't mind Andrea hitchhiking along!
I might go the first route suggested "of poetry in other forms"...I've always loved the writings of William Faulkner and his "tip of the hat" to poetry writing always touched me, "I’m a failed poet. Maybe every novelist wants to write poetry first, finds he can’t and then tries the short story which is the most demanding form after poetry. And failing at that, only then does he take up novel writing." I found his "stream of consciousness" technique enormously poetic... and so The Sound and the Fury, followed by As I lay Dying....hold a special place in my heart.
***************************************as for an actual poem:
Robert Frost's --A Tuft of Flowers, a common poem perhaps, but it resonates my feeling of contentment with being alone. I like how Frost contrasts a sense of aloneness with a sense of empathic intuitiveness to reveal his "theme" of the common bond between men. Thus for me, I personally feel more "human" when I'm alone and outside with nature.Gabs, I don't know if we have room or the need for A Tuft of Flowers to be posted...here it is is you like to put it up.
The Tuft of Flowers
I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the leveled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been -- alone,
'As all must be,' I said within my heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'
But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly
,Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach
.'Men work together,' I told him from the heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'
****************************
by Andrea
by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Richard Corey
WHENEVER Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
My Mother used to read us poetry from a black leather bound volume. She could read The Raven and have you believe you were in the room with the narrator. We always requested this one-perhaps we were just morbid children or perhaps it was our Mom's way of teaching us "Be happy with what you have"
My favorite line, apart from the shocking last one, was always
"In fine, we thought that he was everything to make us wish that we were in his place."
(We THOUGHT that he was everything... )
My Mother, and this poem, helped me to look past the facades and see the people underneath- for better or worse.
I might go the first route suggested "of poetry in other forms"...I've always loved the writings of William Faulkner and his "tip of the hat" to poetry writing always touched me, "I’m a failed poet. Maybe every novelist wants to write poetry first, finds he can’t and then tries the short story which is the most demanding form after poetry. And failing at that, only then does he take up novel writing." I found his "stream of consciousness" technique enormously poetic... and so The Sound and the Fury, followed by As I lay Dying....hold a special place in my heart.
***************************************as for an actual poem:
Robert Frost's --A Tuft of Flowers, a common poem perhaps, but it resonates my feeling of contentment with being alone. I like how Frost contrasts a sense of aloneness with a sense of empathic intuitiveness to reveal his "theme" of the common bond between men. Thus for me, I personally feel more "human" when I'm alone and outside with nature.Gabs, I don't know if we have room or the need for A Tuft of Flowers to be posted...here it is is you like to put it up.
The Tuft of Flowers
I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the leveled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been -- alone,
'As all must be,' I said within my heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'
But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly
,Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach
.'Men work together,' I told him from the heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'
****************************
by Andrea
by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Richard Corey
WHENEVER Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
My Mother used to read us poetry from a black leather bound volume. She could read The Raven and have you believe you were in the room with the narrator. We always requested this one-perhaps we were just morbid children or perhaps it was our Mom's way of teaching us "Be happy with what you have"
My favorite line, apart from the shocking last one, was always
"In fine, we thought that he was everything to make us wish that we were in his place."
(We THOUGHT that he was everything... )
My Mother, and this poem, helped me to look past the facades and see the people underneath- for better or worse.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
My quotes...
My quotes are many and from various genres, I hope you enjoy them and that your's keep coming.
Jungleland by Bruce Springstein
"...and the poets down here don't write nothing at all
they just stand back and let it all be
and in the quick of the night
they reach for their moment
and try to make an honest stand..."
Not only is this an awesome rock song, it is a beautiful poem. That line just struck me when I heard it - just gorgeous stark imagry.
Jabberwocky by Lewis Carrol
"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogoves
and the mome raths outgrabe."
To me, there is no better beginning to a poem.
The Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving
"...sorrow floats..."
John Irving has written some of my favorite books. And his description of the horrific accident that leads to the discovery that sorrow, unfortunately, both figuratively and literally, will not sink, is some of the most poignant writing I have ever read.
Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein
"...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 will walk with a walk that is measured and slow
and watch where the chalk-white arrows go
to the place where the sidewalk ends."
Shel Silverstein is hugely important to me, as he is the one who made me want to write poetry. I was a loner and a bookworm as a young child, and when I discovered his wonderful poetry I felt this immediate sense of self awareness - this is what I was too, and not only that, there were others out there just like me.
Oh, I could go on, and probably will....I encourage you to add more quotes as they come to you.
Jungleland by Bruce Springstein
"...and the poets down here don't write nothing at all
they just stand back and let it all be
and in the quick of the night
they reach for their moment
and try to make an honest stand..."
Not only is this an awesome rock song, it is a beautiful poem. That line just struck me when I heard it - just gorgeous stark imagry.
Jabberwocky by Lewis Carrol
"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogoves
and the mome raths outgrabe."
To me, there is no better beginning to a poem.
The Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving
"...sorrow floats..."
John Irving has written some of my favorite books. And his description of the horrific accident that leads to the discovery that sorrow, unfortunately, both figuratively and literally, will not sink, is some of the most poignant writing I have ever read.
Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein
"...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 will walk with a walk that is measured and slow
and watch where the chalk-white arrows go
to the place where the sidewalk ends."
Shel Silverstein is hugely important to me, as he is the one who made me want to write poetry. I was a loner and a bookworm as a young child, and when I discovered his wonderful poetry I felt this immediate sense of self awareness - this is what I was too, and not only that, there were others out there just like me.
Oh, I could go on, and probably will....I encourage you to add more quotes as they come to you.
The words that move us....
I am starting to post the quotes that inspire and embolden the poets here at Closet Poet. Please continue to send them, and submit as many as you like.
****************
by Michelle
my favorite quote is actually something my mom said to me when i had my daughter..."you are the one she will look to..."
it was part of a longer thought, but it always stuck with me. i was the one she would look to for guidance when she took her first step, to learn how to act and react, to know what was safe, to comfort her in times of distress, etc. no matter the situation, i always remember the words my mom said and remember that what i do and say help to shape the person my child becomes.
*****************
by John
G,
here is the line of poetry I most cherish.It is not musical or funny, but it embodies my entire spirit of existentialism.I truly believe that everything that happens in our life is the result of choices and probabilities.
In this case, hubris led to a bad choice. And so it goes.
It is from Thomas Hardy's"The Convergence of the Twain"
VIII
And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.
*******************
by Marianne
I am the navigator of the seas.
I built the ocean from my tears.
I go whichever way the wind might blow.
I've been drifting for what seems a hundred years,
Tragically not knowing I could steer.
These lyrics are from, Following My Compass, by singer/songwriter Kristen Hall. She has put out some of the most poetic music I have ever heard.
I think this portion of her song touches me because it reminds me of the mistakes I made in my youth, “Tragically not knowing I could steer.” There are so many things I would have done differently, if only I had realized that I could direct the course of my life. I didn’t have to wait for the perfect time, the perfect man, the perfect bank account. If only I had had more ambition, more determination. But I went which ever way the wind blew and I still seem to be drifting, and some days drifting in an ocean of my tears.
Marianne
****************
by Michelle
my favorite quote is actually something my mom said to me when i had my daughter..."you are the one she will look to..."
it was part of a longer thought, but it always stuck with me. i was the one she would look to for guidance when she took her first step, to learn how to act and react, to know what was safe, to comfort her in times of distress, etc. no matter the situation, i always remember the words my mom said and remember that what i do and say help to shape the person my child becomes.
*****************
by John
G,
here is the line of poetry I most cherish.It is not musical or funny, but it embodies my entire spirit of existentialism.I truly believe that everything that happens in our life is the result of choices and probabilities.
In this case, hubris led to a bad choice. And so it goes.
It is from Thomas Hardy's"The Convergence of the Twain"
VIII
And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.
*******************
by Marianne
I am the navigator of the seas.
I built the ocean from my tears.
I go whichever way the wind might blow.
I've been drifting for what seems a hundred years,
Tragically not knowing I could steer.
These lyrics are from, Following My Compass, by singer/songwriter Kristen Hall. She has put out some of the most poetic music I have ever heard.
I think this portion of her song touches me because it reminds me of the mistakes I made in my youth, “Tragically not knowing I could steer.” There are so many things I would have done differently, if only I had realized that I could direct the course of my life. I didn’t have to wait for the perfect time, the perfect man, the perfect bank account. If only I had had more ambition, more determination. But I went which ever way the wind blew and I still seem to be drifting, and some days drifting in an ocean of my tears.
Marianne
Poems
Here are some new offerings - remember, feel free to send anything anytime you want.
Selfish Heart
Girl meets boy.
Girl wants boy.
Boy wants other girl.
Other girl wants other boy,
Who wants other boy.
Wicked is the heart.
Selfishly it rules.
It never wants,
What’s for the taking.
It only wants love,
Of its own making.
Marianne Fuchs
March 23, 2008
Selfish Heart
Girl meets boy.
Girl wants boy.
Boy wants other girl.
Other girl wants other boy,
Who wants other boy.
Wicked is the heart.
Selfishly it rules.
It never wants,
What’s for the taking.
It only wants love,
Of its own making.
Marianne Fuchs
March 23, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
Friday School and other tidbits...
I just loved Marianne's idea with my poem, and I found I wanted to try that opposite effect as well, so I did Andrea's haiku - which I thought was so poignant.
Assignment this week is from Kate - please submit a favorite poet and one line of their's that really touches you. Let us know why. Have a great weekend!
Assignment this week is from Kate - please submit a favorite poet and one line of their's that really touches you. Let us know why. Have a great weekend!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Feedback requested...
John has submiited a poem and requested feedback and suggestions. Hopefully, he will comment in and let us know exactly what he is dissatisfied with. He welcomes all criticism.
STARLIGHT MINTS
I remember the day Grandmother gasped
and dropped the bowl of Starlight Mints.
The Big Bang of my youth produced
a linoleum galaxy of glass
and candy, red and white whirls
in wondrous cellophane
stranded between glistening shards.
“Be careful, don’t touch that,”
she bitterly cautioned as my hand
reached for the nearest
pigtailed pinwheel of crystallized
sugar. I couldn’t help myself,
I didn’t fear the rasorial edge
of hen pecked tales. Not all
glass cuts, not all light blinds.
Touting confidence in the diaphanous
wrapper, I unwound one end,
making sure every crinkle
transmitted clearly to Grandmother’s ear.
“I’m warning you…” the magnitude
of her words diminishing in
the sweet sensation of my tongue
against the Starlight Mint.
STARLIGHT MINTS
I remember the day Grandmother gasped
and dropped the bowl of Starlight Mints.
The Big Bang of my youth produced
a linoleum galaxy of glass
and candy, red and white whirls
in wondrous cellophane
stranded between glistening shards.
“Be careful, don’t touch that,”
she bitterly cautioned as my hand
reached for the nearest
pigtailed pinwheel of crystallized
sugar. I couldn’t help myself,
I didn’t fear the rasorial edge
of hen pecked tales. Not all
glass cuts, not all light blinds.
Touting confidence in the diaphanous
wrapper, I unwound one end,
making sure every crinkle
transmitted clearly to Grandmother’s ear.
“I’m warning you…” the magnitude
of her words diminishing in
the sweet sensation of my tongue
against the Starlight Mint.
Monday, March 17, 2008
FRIDAY SCHOOL Revisions
We have our first revision. Hopefully more to come..
Also, added a new love poem...
*********
by Marianne
OLDER WOMEN
(2008)
Do older women
feel the fire?
Or touch the ice?
They wander out,
appearing susceptible
to everything-
from apathy to the weather.
Pocketbooks clutched,
silent as mimes.
They concentrate solely
on
each footfall.
They turn in surprise,
then laugh silently.
Their tension
glimmers
like the reflection
from the shop windows
cursed
by their glance.
Too conscious of the cars,
and the people,
and the shadows
that pass around them.
They’ve existed
for decades
only for the sake of others.
Broken,
apologetic,
unaware
that their moment
of beauty is not over.
Marianne Fuchs
March 17, 2008
Revision of, Young Girls,By Gabrielle Cheek
************
by Gabrielle
There for all to see
I fling myself wide open
You may turn your heads
Revision of Haiku by Andrea
Also, added a new love poem...
*********
by Marianne
OLDER WOMEN
(2008)
Do older women
feel the fire?
Or touch the ice?
They wander out,
appearing susceptible
to everything-
from apathy to the weather.
Pocketbooks clutched,
silent as mimes.
They concentrate solely
on
each footfall.
They turn in surprise,
then laugh silently.
Their tension
glimmers
like the reflection
from the shop windows
cursed
by their glance.
Too conscious of the cars,
and the people,
and the shadows
that pass around them.
They’ve existed
for decades
only for the sake of others.
Broken,
apologetic,
unaware
that their moment
of beauty is not over.
Marianne Fuchs
March 17, 2008
Revision of, Young Girls,By Gabrielle Cheek
************
by Gabrielle
There for all to see
I fling myself wide open
You may turn your heads
Revision of Haiku by Andrea
Friday, March 14, 2008
Keep checking old posts and other things....
Hey, guys. Just added new poems to some of the older Friday schools, so don't forget to check them out every once in awhile.
Also, it was mentioned to me that this Friday's assignment might make some people uncomfortable....I'd like to hear back from you all, and if you agree I'll find another assignment. Looking forward to your imput, as we don't want to offend anyone here.
Have a great weekend!
Also, it was mentioned to me that this Friday's assignment might make some people uncomfortable....I'd like to hear back from you all, and if you agree I'll find another assignment. Looking forward to your imput, as we don't want to offend anyone here.
Have a great weekend!
Thursday, March 13, 2008
LOVE poems...
Let's see if we get submissions for this one. I think that most modern poets either shy from this subject or just embrace it like a high school sweetheart on a drunken night at a reunion. It definitely wasn't the easiest for me, but that's what this is all about, right? So, here we go...
Language of Love
by Gabrielle
The language of my life's love
has many dialects:
Sister
Mother
Child
Lover
Friend
The love I feel
is without end.
My ears are always
waiting for their call.
I find that I
translate them all.
********
by Michelle
there she lies
asleep on her pillow
the only person I have ever loved
with heart
with soul
to die for
to live for
my being is hers
from birth
she is my joy
my responsibility
my friend
sleep my beloved
dream of your someday
and know
my love is eternal
I am afraid
he came out of nowhere
wanting to break the wall
trying to get in
wanting to share
all I have
and all that I love
he is kind
he is thoughtful
but can I love?
love for me?
love for life?
the wall remains
but brick by brick
fear crumbles
hope seeps in
**********
by John
(This is a reinterpretation of Dire Straits song ROMEO AND JULIET, as first seen on Mo Rocca's 180 blog.)
ROMEO and JULIO
NARRATOR
A love-struck Romeo sings 180 a serenade
Raising everybody high, well above the common fray,
Finds a hand to hold, explains why he is Gay
Asks something like, “So tell me, What’s a Montague?
Julio says “Keep your voice down Romeo, you want the INS up here?”
Why’d you never say this before, “HAY LA, my best friend’s queer
But still, couldn’t this wait until the morning dear?
Anyway, now what the hell we gonna do?
ROMEO:
Julio, my plan’s to make a wife of you
I will make you legal, Red White and Blue
I’ll have to check, make sure that it’s not wrong
But I can’t imagine, if it is—won’t be for long, Julio?
Now getting to the wedding, that’s another matter entirely
Should we take a limo, a bicycle built for two or taxi?
One thing I’ve gotta do, before the dress rehearsal
I gotta go vote, and VOTE FOR HANK KIMBALL!
******
by Monica
beauty - bone deep
distracted momentarily
by the hideous mass,
foul mind in a pretty package
remorse, perhaps
but continued seduction
what more? what for?
vision, vivid, velocity
so great, so smooth
forever trapped
the damage is done
***********
by Susan
"William"
At 3:02 in the morning
after drinking too much last night
I know he loves me
though he only winks.
I forget how we got where we are
Providence drugged me, I think,
lest I reveal the path.
I don't like much anymore.
I don't trust anything.
I miss my father, Martin Luther King and JFK.
I miss everything that violence has stripped away.
Life is big, ugly and unfair.
William knows this intimately
And knows how I've been searching under our bed for my rose colored glasses
And knows sometimes I cry because it's 3:02 in the morning
And knows I'm as crazy as the next one in my family
And knows how god-damned much I want to live
I am a poet and he only winks
And his silence is as golden
as the rims on the glasses I can't find.
***********
by Marianne
To My Reluctant Lover
Are you calling me out of pity or guilt?
Please don’t.
I’m dealing fine with my problems,
I don’t need your pity.
I know what it’s like to,
Get involved with someone,
And then regret it.
You can let go of the guilt.
You’re doing neither of us any good.
It’s obvious you’ll never care for me.
Not the way I care for you.
If you wanted me as a lover,
Or even just a friend,
You’d fight to keep me in your life.
But you won’t.
You’d find time to spend with me.
But you don’t.
It would be easier on me,
If you’d just let me go,
I hope you find happiness
I hope you find joy.
I hope you find love.
I hope you find hope.
I can’t help you anymore.
You won’t let me.
Take care of yourself.
Smile and give me a hug,
If ever we cross paths.
And remember,
You will always be,
A special person to me.
Marianne Fuchs
March 07, 2008
***********
by Andrea
So, I have been working on a love poem but didn't quite like what I had. I was looking through some old papers and found some "love poems" from the improv game Bad Freshmen poetry-if you recall this is a game where you are given either a title or a first line and must type out ON THE SPOT a poem. so- bear in mind these were written in about 10 seconds...
****
the title given me was VOMIT
You threw up on my shoes
I didn't mind
It must be Love
****
The first line given me was Pablo Neruda says...
Pablo Neruda says,
Mi Amor Mi Amor
Pablo Picasso says,
All women are whores ALL women are whores
Pablo McGinnis from my homeroom says,
Hey, wanna go to a movie?
***********
by John
M * A * S * H *
I can never love you that way,
but at least we will always have
Chipyong-ni
and your rhyme with “protocol”
@ 3 something in the morning,
and your tales of Poppy in peril.
You dance across my screen
like some cyber-virus- heart -saving
Margaret O’Houlihan
If I could write a love poem
I think it would be this:
(*)
Language of Love
by Gabrielle
The language of my life's love
has many dialects:
Sister
Mother
Child
Lover
Friend
The love I feel
is without end.
My ears are always
waiting for their call.
I find that I
translate them all.
********
by Michelle
there she lies
asleep on her pillow
the only person I have ever loved
with heart
with soul
to die for
to live for
my being is hers
from birth
she is my joy
my responsibility
my friend
sleep my beloved
dream of your someday
and know
my love is eternal
I am afraid
he came out of nowhere
wanting to break the wall
trying to get in
wanting to share
all I have
and all that I love
he is kind
he is thoughtful
but can I love?
love for me?
love for life?
the wall remains
but brick by brick
fear crumbles
hope seeps in
**********
by John
(This is a reinterpretation of Dire Straits song ROMEO AND JULIET, as first seen on Mo Rocca's 180 blog.)
ROMEO and JULIO
NARRATOR
A love-struck Romeo sings 180 a serenade
Raising everybody high, well above the common fray,
Finds a hand to hold, explains why he is Gay
Asks something like, “So tell me, What’s a Montague?
Julio says “Keep your voice down Romeo, you want the INS up here?”
Why’d you never say this before, “HAY LA, my best friend’s queer
But still, couldn’t this wait until the morning dear?
Anyway, now what the hell we gonna do?
ROMEO:
Julio, my plan’s to make a wife of you
I will make you legal, Red White and Blue
I’ll have to check, make sure that it’s not wrong
But I can’t imagine, if it is—won’t be for long, Julio?
Now getting to the wedding, that’s another matter entirely
Should we take a limo, a bicycle built for two or taxi?
One thing I’ve gotta do, before the dress rehearsal
I gotta go vote, and VOTE FOR HANK KIMBALL!
******
by Monica
beauty - bone deep
distracted momentarily
by the hideous mass,
foul mind in a pretty package
remorse, perhaps
but continued seduction
what more? what for?
vision, vivid, velocity
so great, so smooth
forever trapped
the damage is done
***********
by Susan
"William"
At 3:02 in the morning
after drinking too much last night
I know he loves me
though he only winks.
I forget how we got where we are
Providence drugged me, I think,
lest I reveal the path.
I don't like much anymore.
I don't trust anything.
I miss my father, Martin Luther King and JFK.
I miss everything that violence has stripped away.
Life is big, ugly and unfair.
William knows this intimately
And knows how I've been searching under our bed for my rose colored glasses
And knows sometimes I cry because it's 3:02 in the morning
And knows I'm as crazy as the next one in my family
And knows how god-damned much I want to live
I am a poet and he only winks
And his silence is as golden
as the rims on the glasses I can't find.
***********
by Marianne
To My Reluctant Lover
Are you calling me out of pity or guilt?
Please don’t.
I’m dealing fine with my problems,
I don’t need your pity.
I know what it’s like to,
Get involved with someone,
And then regret it.
You can let go of the guilt.
You’re doing neither of us any good.
It’s obvious you’ll never care for me.
Not the way I care for you.
If you wanted me as a lover,
Or even just a friend,
You’d fight to keep me in your life.
But you won’t.
You’d find time to spend with me.
But you don’t.
It would be easier on me,
If you’d just let me go,
I hope you find happiness
I hope you find joy.
I hope you find love.
I hope you find hope.
I can’t help you anymore.
You won’t let me.
Take care of yourself.
Smile and give me a hug,
If ever we cross paths.
And remember,
You will always be,
A special person to me.
Marianne Fuchs
March 07, 2008
***********
by Andrea
So, I have been working on a love poem but didn't quite like what I had. I was looking through some old papers and found some "love poems" from the improv game Bad Freshmen poetry-if you recall this is a game where you are given either a title or a first line and must type out ON THE SPOT a poem. so- bear in mind these were written in about 10 seconds...
****
the title given me was VOMIT
You threw up on my shoes
I didn't mind
It must be Love
****
The first line given me was Pablo Neruda says...
Pablo Neruda says,
Mi Amor Mi Amor
Pablo Picasso says,
All women are whores ALL women are whores
Pablo McGinnis from my homeroom says,
Hey, wanna go to a movie?
***********
by John
M * A * S * H *
I can never love you that way,
but at least we will always have
Chipyong-ni
and your rhyme with “protocol”
@ 3 something in the morning,
and your tales of Poppy in peril.
You dance across my screen
like some cyber-virus- heart -saving
Margaret O’Houlihan
If I could write a love poem
I think it would be this:
(*)
Next Week's Assignment
Let's mix things up a little. Your assignment for next week is to take a poem from the ones submitted here, and rewrite it. Please do not choose one of your own. Choosing a specific poem to rewrite does NOT mean you didn't like the poem, or thought the poem was not good in its original state, so please, no one get worried. In fact, I am eying a couple of my very favorite ones. Have a great weekend everyone!
Sunday, March 9, 2008
FRIDAY SCHOOL
Sorry to be late - I got a virus in my computer and have been waging war all weekend. I have a love-hate relationship with my computer. I love it when it works right......It's still the same old story...the fight for love and glory....a case of do or die....
On that note, let's just get this out of the way and write some love poems. Any aspect or perspective, any form, due Saturday.
On that note, let's just get this out of the way and write some love poems. Any aspect or perspective, any form, due Saturday.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Haiku Friday
Here's the first of the Haiku. I have to agree that it was easier to write bad/funny haiku than serious ones! Extra credit to everyone that submitted early!
Haiku
By Andrea
You cannot find me
I have hidden myself well
Please try anyway
By Marianne
Cats curl then unfurl
Upon my warm cozy bed
House bound lions all
By Michelle
Exuberant joy
Blows in the wind as she swings
Heaven within reach
Day renewed by night
Death renewed by creation
Cycle of the world
By Gabrielle
SMARTER THAN YOUR DOCTORS
(A haiku for Marianne)
Your doctors were awed
Said you were a miracle
I always knew it.
Barry
(for Kate)
by Gabrielle
Barry grows so fat.
From our humor he was born.
Our laughter feeds him.
Toilet Paper
by Gabrielle
No paper up here.
Keep forgetting to bring it.
Closet seems far now.
(Sorry - I couldn't resist!)
Haiku
By Andrea
You cannot find me
I have hidden myself well
Please try anyway
By Marianne
Cats curl then unfurl
Upon my warm cozy bed
House bound lions all
By Michelle
Exuberant joy
Blows in the wind as she swings
Heaven within reach
Day renewed by night
Death renewed by creation
Cycle of the world
By Gabrielle
SMARTER THAN YOUR DOCTORS
(A haiku for Marianne)
Your doctors were awed
Said you were a miracle
I always knew it.
Barry
(for Kate)
by Gabrielle
Barry grows so fat.
From our humor he was born.
Our laughter feeds him.
Toilet Paper
by Gabrielle
No paper up here.
Keep forgetting to bring it.
Closet seems far now.
(Sorry - I couldn't resist!)
by John
Double Mock Haiku
I was forty-five *********************In the fall of life
The difference a day makes ***********I am not who I once was
Life springs a surprise.*************** Opening the mail
*************
by Susan
"We will steal your wife"
The telephone voice threatened
My brave husband shook
**
He spent more on whores
Than many earn in a decade
Confessions fall short
**
A dime makes you smile
When you don't have a penny
Feet in cardboard shoes
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Transitional poetry
These are two poems written from transitional periods in my life, also adding one from Susan.
MIAMI
3/88
I hear sirens
All night long here.
Love songs
Swan songs
Lullabies of desperadoes
And they send me to sleep,
Dreaming of lost causes
And hopeless cases
And unendurable pain.
CARNIVAL
2/7/89
I went to see the carnival
Only to find it gone.
It had pulled up stakes inside the night
And fled before the dawn.
Whirling off to meet adventure
In a rendezvous with fate,
I had wanted to go with them
But I found I was too late.
the night i thought about quitting therapy
the night i thought about quitting
therapy
i spent three and a half minutes looking
for the right pen to write with
about quitting therapy
and sat in a too-warm bathtub
and worried about whether
i’d get my mother’s varicose veins.
i thought about not looking at my corners
for cobwebs and dust faeries
and instead
wanting to dance in the center of this place
and fling my arms wide
to the skylight of tomorrow.
i wanted to burn the graves of my ancestors
and to pile their marble epitaphs
into a wailing wall
for some other sucker.
there was a burning in my skull
like an emergency broadcast test signal
that urged me to rush ashore
from the primordial stew
of my memory.
the hum of an air conditioner filled my sails
and set me on coarse for wandering
as i wished to cut off my hand
that steered me toward
the rocks of cold lava
and the bones and bandannas
in the sand.
the night I thought about quitting therapy
i was frightened of my microscope eyes
turned inward
and i felt like dr. frankenstein and his monster
i felt like dr jekyl and mr hyde
i felt like jack the ripper
and every painted hooker
between his kid glove hands
as I knew not what I was creating
nor what I might destroy.
© Susan Sheppard, 2000
MIAMI
3/88
I hear sirens
All night long here.
Love songs
Swan songs
Lullabies of desperadoes
And they send me to sleep,
Dreaming of lost causes
And hopeless cases
And unendurable pain.
CARNIVAL
2/7/89
I went to see the carnival
Only to find it gone.
It had pulled up stakes inside the night
And fled before the dawn.
Whirling off to meet adventure
In a rendezvous with fate,
I had wanted to go with them
But I found I was too late.
the night i thought about quitting therapy
the night i thought about quitting
therapy
i spent three and a half minutes looking
for the right pen to write with
about quitting therapy
and sat in a too-warm bathtub
and worried about whether
i’d get my mother’s varicose veins.
i thought about not looking at my corners
for cobwebs and dust faeries
and instead
wanting to dance in the center of this place
and fling my arms wide
to the skylight of tomorrow.
i wanted to burn the graves of my ancestors
and to pile their marble epitaphs
into a wailing wall
for some other sucker.
there was a burning in my skull
like an emergency broadcast test signal
that urged me to rush ashore
from the primordial stew
of my memory.
the hum of an air conditioner filled my sails
and set me on coarse for wandering
as i wished to cut off my hand
that steered me toward
the rocks of cold lava
and the bones and bandannas
in the sand.
the night I thought about quitting therapy
i was frightened of my microscope eyes
turned inward
and i felt like dr. frankenstein and his monster
i felt like dr jekyl and mr hyde
i felt like jack the ripper
and every painted hooker
between his kid glove hands
as I knew not what I was creating
nor what I might destroy.
© Susan Sheppard, 2000
Submitting your poems...
I am finding that I have the best luck if you email your poem to me as an attachment, then I can copy and paste it, and it seems to retain its format. Loving everyone's poetry - better than my own, damn you! I feel like my poetry is lacking something - talent?! Ha. No, maybe I feel it lacks maturity, which or course it does, because much of it was written when I was young. I'm just not getting that "I nailed that" feeling. Any suggestions?
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Hey you guys..........
Don't forget to keep checking back on the Friday school poems - just added one from Monica. Also, just added Marianne's poem under Impressions of Fear....Welcome back Marianne! I missed you!
Monday, March 3, 2008
LATE ENTRY-FRIDAY SCHOOL
Sorry guys, working a new schedule. Will get my act together better this week. I have never written a Haiku. That's our assignment. Any subject.
***************
Listen, we have got to start actually commenting on each other's poems....that is what will help us grow as writers. I am giving it a go tomorrow - I know that sucks. You have until Saturday for the assignment....
***************
Listen, we have got to start actually commenting on each other's poems....that is what will help us grow as writers. I am giving it a go tomorrow - I know that sucks. You have until Saturday for the assignment....
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