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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 6/28/2008 2:16:47 PM | ahh sunoir, that was exquisite ..... you are a gentle rain on my parched land
even the most ordinary day
the bustle of life going on
the reassuring tempo of the banal
the same facades, routines
people seem to thrive
never living on that shore
i know too well
where blood pours in on the tide
just a fish out of water
wetting the sands of misery,
hurling tears at a numb world
watching the distant horizon
where one lone sail
drifting serenely appears
that icon of mercy
and salvation
not mine
not ever mine
yes I be
yes
I exist here
but i do not
throb
with the tide of life
with the flow of love
tidaling in the
shimmering pool
of my soul
your golden prow
will never plunge my depths
your silver breath
will never fill my sails | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 6/29/2008 9:47:49 PM | Pain ... I think you hate me,
I try not to take it personally
Like some objective thing that happens.
Lest you discriminate.
Is it any comfort that all suffer???
Some more than others???
I cry out for releif for my brother!!!
My sister I demand some compassion for you!!
So many ways we suffer,
so many ways we are crushed,
Fate, hate, Friends, Family Lovers and health.
God you know what we feel how could you?
I know not.
So I ask you for the strength and will to carry on.
When it is dark let me find my way.
When I am weak strengthen my hand.
When I am broken ....
Give me a friend to help me stand. | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 6/29/2008 9:52:44 PM | karma
has NOTHING to do with tomorrow
only with today
and what i do TODAY
has everything to do with tomorrow
or so i heard it said
time and again
and until i believe
i will stay in my pain
alone
and wondering
why me? | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 6/29/2008 10:06:40 PM | Alone???
With all these well wishers?
Alone???
What cruel lies..
You are never alone...
Feeling alone and lonely
Feeling all manner of things.
Reality is more than feelings
and now is the only time we have.
Wish I could give you a real hug.... now!!!
 | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 6/29/2008 11:15:37 PM | oh hell...
love?
yeah, what about it?
i thought i was in love once
but what i was in love with
was being in love
and thru the pain
i stayed in it far tooo long
losing myself completely
to what i thought he needed
when all along he didn't
need what i thought
he needed me
to simply stay outta his way
and to this day
i scratch my head
and wonder...
love?
oh hell.... | |
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| This just in!
Posted: 6/30/2008 4:18:25 AM | George Bush
has a trim, athletic tush!
Trouble is (it has been said),
he carries it where he ought to keep his head. | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 6/30/2008 4:21:05 AM |
ahh sunoir, that was exquisite ..... you are a gentle rain on my parched land
even the most ordinary day
the bustle of life going on
the reassuring tempo of the banal
the same facades, routines
people seem to thrive
never living on that shore
i know too well
where blood pours in on the tide
just a fish out of water
wetting the sands of misery,
hurling tears at a numb world
watching the distant horizon
where one lone sail
drifting serenely appears
that icon of mercy
and salvation
not mine
not ever mine
yes I be
yes
I exist here
but i do not
throb
with the tide of life
with the flow of love
tidaling in the
shimmering pool
of my soul
your golden prow
will never plunge my depths
your silver breath
will never fill my sails
How you can be at once so transcendentally at peace - and yet so despondent and/or self depreciating! | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 6/30/2008 10:36:13 AM | Peace is tricky
one can be at peace
yet still despondent,
accepting of life,
but still trying to rise above the din.
Joy affects us
in much the same way.
It is possible to be joyful
and unhappy simultaneously,
without diminishing either emotion
I guess the rub would be
to find peace and happiness
entwined
when so often it is joy and despair
that commingle here | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 6/30/2008 12:57:02 PM | Peace in your embrace,
so completely entwined,
enraptured in your prescence.
Happiness has changed me
my focus my view
Only on you
the rest fades away. | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/1/2008 3:26:51 AM | duality of life
good/bad
dark/light
ying / yang of chi
took a lifetime
to realize
didn't have to choose
'cause simply i'd lose
never totally being
either...
or
embracing both
i accept
ebb/flow
the
rhythm
of
life | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/1/2008 8:09:13 AM | "a slow hummmm of acceptance blazing"
all the while skeletons grazing
on my soul
what are skeletons
but the remains
of someone else's gains?
what is my soul
but a weary part of me
wishing the physical would let it be?
a life divine is a climb
a soul with a goal
upon breaking free of time...
will be fine
and what it "sees" will become real..
upon letting go
of what we physically feel
in the mean time - pun intended
solace found in kindred souls befriended
bring peace to thee
let it be
soak in the view
but it is not the whole of you
hey ma........just wanted to say I love ya! | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/2/2008 8:43:31 AM | Your wings open'd up
Cradle'n me with your touch
My Soul survives in your warmth!!!
Ya know I LOVE YOU!!!
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/2/2008 10:16:55 AM | you dared to flay me open
my soul now bent and bruised.
lead me to your bed, lied
the velvet voice inside my head.
and taken at your word
I gave to you what you requested
and having won, you fled making your retreat
casting aside the husk left on the sheet
now I am poor of heart
saddened and ill taken
I did not ask that you wake
that part of me that slept
awake now like a spoiled child
I sulk and wander in my mind
the words keep me awake
passion roused, no words can slake
I did not remember what I had missed
so long since I had been passion kissed
now the pain runs rampantly
I beg to ban those words from me
love you swannie | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 2:59:17 AM | Five am, the ghosts have just left
the almost day is idling
time is fractured by rustling leaves
patiently waiting to be
brilliantly green again
simply stated, there is nothing to state
the dew is kissing the bouganvilleas awake
the fireflies are dancing out the night
and i am the empress of dawn
a summer song of languid hours
now ripening in a newborn light | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 4:32:28 AM |
Five am, the ghosts have just left
the almost day is idling
time is fractured by rustling leaves
patiently waiting to be
brilliantly green again
simply stated, there is nothing to state
the dew is kissing the bouganvilleas awake
the fireflies are dancing out the night
and i am the empress of dawn
a summer song of languid hours
now ripening in a newborn light
How is that in some poems, such as this one, even "the / is / and " etc. seems to be CHARGED with freaking poetry? My God, this is good, Silver!!! "The Empress of dawn" reminds me of one of my favourite poems, by Wm Carlos W. Guess which one?
"simply stated, there is nothing to state" and yet the angels are even now dancing around singing that line to the stars!!!! | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 5:08:05 AM | nope, can't place it off hand...but here is my all time WCW poem....this poem just blew me away, this is what poetry is all about:
The Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
and jerry, i wish i was the half the poet you are.... i sincerely do. | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 10:15:22 AM | I suppose this one
Danse Russe
If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,--
If I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt around my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely,
I was born to be lonely...”
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
Wm Carlos Williams
is chopped liver?
C'mon, please don't do that "I wish I was half the poet" stuff! I do pretty much the best I can do with what I got - and you damned well do the same with yours! | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 10:33:25 AM | ah, that poem is my favorite one by WCW...it makes me smile every time....
I would guess WCW had more than a little "sprite in you"....
While I admire your modesty, silverswan, you are a very, very good poet.... | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 5:21:06 PM | oh crap, don't get me started again.....I am a middling, mediocre wanna-be-poet for a semi-intelligent aging miscreant who wasted her intelligence and life on trying to change another human human being, spending far too much time on anger, wasting far too much time in despair.... I am NOT a real poet, i write nice little words sometimes but truly do not have the true blue goods, the poetic vision and sensibility and proper tools and craft.... i come close to it, as most of us do, but i do not write good poetry. it is mediocre at best and will do for this forum...it's not like we are here on Valhalla, someplace lofty and sacred, we are on POF for goodness sakes, not even a literary web site, a scummy, scurrilous corner of the internet and my verse is driftwood on the shore here, sometimes nicely sheened and weathered, has a certain artistic twist to it, but still, just a lonely discarded piece of wood, isolated, tossed careless here...not ever to be granted the status of a real poem that speaks the eternal truth, putting the infinite into the finite, as Browing said. Gosh. I am thankful you like my drivel and applaud my attempts, but please please please stop saying it is good poetry.... it is merely an ok collection lines thrown up on an internet dating website where i am trying to reel in one soul who will take the bait of a nicely turned phrase and hopefully just hopefully be intrigued to meet the mind that wants oh so clearly to be worthy of another intriguing mind of similar sensibility, that senses the still lingering hope that i have within me the ability to love passionately, faithfully, and will work at it, will strive to get it right this time, will never be anything but a possible poem bursting with an inner beauty, an inner glow that will escort them into old age with a twinkle in her eye, lots of good music, good times and yes, mediocre poetry....
that being said, again, for the umpteenth time...LOL
yes, i remember that specific poem now jerry, and yes, i too like Brizo smile every time i read it....for who could not with that image of him leaping around...and you get the sense that he did do it, don't you???? What a marvellous poet..and a product of New Jersey my goodness!!!! How differently his life might have been had he not met Ezra Pound, had he not travelled in such elevated literary circles, would he have been just the country doctor, or was that brilliant mind capable of poetry always, always was poetry his first true love that made all his other loves possible???? I feel a WCW festival posting surging out of my now deadened fingers on my left hand.... LET THE REAL POETRY NOW COMMENCE!!!!!!!!! lol :)
Memory of April
You say love is this, love is that:
Poplar tassels, willow tendrils
the wind and the rain comb,
tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip--
branches drifting apart. Hagh!
Love has not even visited this country.
Epitaph
An old willow with hollow branches
slowly swayed his few high tendrils
and sang:
Love is a young green willow
shimmering at the bare wood's edge.
January
Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.
Dawn
Ecstatic bird songs pound
the hollow vastness of the sky
with metallic clinkings--
beating color up into it
at a far edge,--beating it, beating it
with rising, triumphant ardor,--
stirring it into warmth,
quickening in it a spreading change,--
bursting wildly against it as
dividing the horizon, a heavy sun
lifts himself--is lifted--
bit by bit above the edge
of things,--runs free at last
out into the open! --lumbering
glorified in full release upward--
songs cease.
Complaint
They call me and I go.
It is a frozen road
past midnight,
a dust
of snow caught
in the rigid wheeltracks.
The door opens.
I smile, enter and
shake off the cold.
Here is a great woman
on her side in the bed.
She is sick, perhaps vomiting,
perhaps laboring
to give birth to
a tenth child. Joy! Joy!
Night is a room
darkened for lovers,
through the jalousies the sun
has sent one golden needle!
I pick the hair from her eyes
and watch her misery
with compassion.
A Goodnight
Go to sleep--though of course you will not--
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls' cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to
the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in
the recoil. Food! Food!
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices--
sleep, sleep . . .
Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings--
lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise,
and your hair loosen and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream--
A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors--
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window. Pay no
heed to him. He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen--
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.
The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them--
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.
The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes--
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you--
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes--and never passes--
A Sort of a Song
Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
sleepless.--
through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose.
(No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.
APRIL
If you had come away with me
into another state
we had been quiet together.
But there the sun coming up
out of the nothing beyond the lake was
too low in the sky,
there was too great a pushing
against him,
too much of sumac buds, pink
in the head
with the clear gum upon them,
too many opening hearts of lilac leaves,
too many, too many swollen
limp poplar tassels on the
bare branches!
It was too strong in the air.
I had no rest against that
springtime!
The pounding of the hoofs on the
raw sods
stayed with me half through the night.
I awoke smiling but tired.
Blizzard
Snow falls:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down --
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes --
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there --
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.
and THAT folks, is what i call POETRY | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 5:41:34 PM | oh crap, don't get me started again.....I am a middling, mediocre wanna-be-poet for a semi-intelligent aging miscreant who wasted her intelligence and life on trying to change another human human being, spending far too much time on anger, wasting far too much time in despair.... I am NOT a real poet, i write nice little words sometimes but truly do not have the true blue goods, the poetic vision and sensibility and proper tools and craft.... i come close to it, as most of us do, but i do not write good poetry. it is mediocre at best and will do for this forum...it's not like we are here on Valhalla, someplace lofty and sacred, we are on POF for goodness sakes, not even a literary web site, a scummy, scurrilous corner of the internet...
Nominations are hereby invited for the Second POF B/S of the Week Award, the preceding having run (not walked) away with the first of these... If ONLY all those who seek to legislate what Poetry Is and Is Not would save their breath for something a whole lot more useful, like smoking!
All I can see of truth in your manifesto is that YOU do not feel YOUR poetry is as good as you would like it to be, as good as Williams or Yeats or Eliot or Lowell or whomever you genuinely admire...
And that last bit, where you characterize POF, is just plain, well, uncharitable to the rest of us -- and to yourself! | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 6:06:19 PM | bravo Alyosha, Swannie take a break on your self, it is all what it is, DO NOT SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF
Love you | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 6:11:53 PM | | Could Swansome be a first-born, as I am, and when people have sometimes suggested that I'm too hard on myself, I ask them: "If I don't do it, who will? | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 6:15:18 PM | | jer, i said POF is a scummy little pond, for the small minded nitwits who patrol it, monitor it, the creator of cheesy little styrofoam androgenous marshmallow people with nary a soul, that hot babe bursting blatant sexuality is a gift who in their right mind would pro-offer to anyone? Yeah, how cool is that guitar though? LOL...and how trite and banal is that red teddy bear..... yeah, perhaps they have to work within a certain stringent mind set that does not allow for exceptions to any of their rules, but this site is not Valahalla, it is not remotely Mainstreet anywhere, it is just a sad sad island of mostly lost, misfit toys, with a few more normal ones sprinkled in the mix, here and there, the little chocolate chip/butterscotch morsels we adore, licking their warmth, chooey, oohey gooey sweetness from our hungry fingertips, grasping for connection, happy to find them - lucky to find a few good friends, a few REAL people who aren't yanking us around with their manipulative mind games. so i am cynical from some of the yahoos i have met here...so what? .... i stay for the quality real people like you and brizo, who have made me a better writer, who set a standard i aspire to. yes, my poetry is not meeting a certain standard and level of excellence , for i am just an aging woman who only has the resources and strength to light one small candle .... i am not that all consuming conflagration of energy i once was.... i just want one more chance to dance in a man's arms and feel safe again. not exactly a woman's lib manifesto am i..... so shoot me, and do you think Gloria Steinham gives a sh1t??? that's all this is all about ..... i do want to go gentle into that good night on the arm of another, our finger tips spanning time and erasing the losses of the past | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 6:22:55 PM | no jer, this was the only egg that hatched and it wasn't a male, which everyone always patted my poor father on the back in commiseration of the sorrowful truth of it being JUST A GIRL.
Just a girl
who can't throw a ball right
or hit a mark 5 feet away with spit
who is just a girl
who just
wants
finally
to be loved | |
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| REVERSING THE SPELL
Posted: 7/6/2008 6:35:20 PM | so rage on Swannie, "rage against the dying of the light"I read that at my Dad's funeral, but he did go softly into that good night, so did Thomas as he swilled himself to death., we are women of a certain age, who as it been said, remember well the Chelsea Hotel. and now we are a bit like skeletons of the past, except we are left with more flesh then bone. and neither of us are ready to call it quits quite yet. The rage is good, we write our best when raging,
love ya | |
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