Poetry slam

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Poetry slam

Postby brainpanhandler » Thu May 01, 2008 7:08 am

Twice Removed

I debated whether to put her picture up
And then quickly did
Before I could think about it anymore.
For awhile I looked at it frequently,
My eyes seeming to find her face ,
Lingering there long enough to catalyze
The neurochemical reaction
That invariably takes place.
Almost one might say the whole process
Is a defense mechanism
Designed to produce a dulling
Of that subtly painful cascade
Of emotions in the way that rubbing
A stubbed toe exhausts the neurotransmitters
Of the pain receptors.

The Italians have a saying,
“before 40 you have the face god gave you,
after 40 you have the face you gave yourself”

Now my eyes sweep across her face
Rapidly, the way one pulls a bandage off.
Suddenly my heart beats slowly and low.
I close my eyes and search
For any thought to distract me.
And yet I won’t take her picture down.
These last few days I completely avert my eyes.
I have learned to blot her picture from my awareness.
What is left is a vague awareness
Of what I do not want to look at,
The awareness of the knowledge that I am
Systematically blinding myself…
Twice removed.
"Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity." - Martin Luther King Jr.
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Postby OP ED » Thu May 01, 2008 9:08 am

liked it. could you tell me anything about it?

also, what am i supposed to do now, do i have to rap back at you?

:twisted:
Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore:
fecemi la divina podestate,
la somma sapienza e 'l primo amore.

:: ::
S.H.C.R.
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Postby brainpanhandler » Thu May 01, 2008 10:46 am

liked it. could you tell me anything about it?


It really is just what it seems. Bukowksi is one of my favorite poets, which if you are familiar with him, will inform you of my notion of what poetry is for me. On the other hand, I dearly love the english romantics, which could not be further from Bukowski's rough musings. So there you have it, no rhyme or reason or at least not much.

also, what am i supposed to do now, do i have to rap back at you?


Strictly speaking, a poetry slam is a competition, but before I went to all the trouble of concocting some scenario whereby we could have such a competition in this context I threw this out to see what kind of interest there might be in such an endeavor.


Wiki article on history and nature of poetry slams:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_slam
"Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity." - Martin Luther King Jr.
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Postby Jeff » Thu May 01, 2008 12:50 pm

This thread inspired me to go to the basement and finally open a cardboard box stuffed with papers in search of some of my poetry. Fortunately I found none. I was surprised, though, to rediscover some by an old girlfriend. (Like, 1987 old.)

Thanks Karen. Hope you're still writing.


Baxter's Autobiography

He remembered the day they tried to make the rabbit sing.

He remembered how a truck melted into his shadow and forever after he wanted to be a truck.

He remembered the parties where guests butchered the neighbourhood dogs and made music with their bones.

He remembered the King at that time was a crustacean.

He remembered his sisters with ivy hair and no skin on their legs.

He remembered listening to his mother tell them, 'You must make your bodies into little cars because when you are older your bodies will be bigger cars and someone will drive them very fast.'

He remembered her smile, all polished chrome.

He remembered his father trying to reform the habits of water and how he could swallow Monday in one gulp.

He remembered the fish hook afternoons when he let flies crawl on his face and counted the seconds he could stand to be touched.

Baxter remembered growing crystal lips.

Baxter remembered the woman he carried on his phallus.

Baxter remembered a beach full of women, each impaled on their lover. And how they held ice to throw at those who ignited while dancing.


She Took a Plane to Paradise

she was found in moonlight
her sleep scattered
around the room
they tied her shoes
with strayed umbilicus
and fastened her head
immobile on a stick
cut her wrists and released angels
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Postby Et in Arcadia ego » Thu May 01, 2008 1:50 pm

You and I have dated very similar women it seems.

Image
"but I do know that you should remove my full name from your sig. Dig?" - Unnamed, Super Scary Persun, bbrrrrr....
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Postby compared2what? » Thu May 01, 2008 2:16 pm

Three from Cafavy:

They should have provided

I have almost been reduced to a homeless pauper.
This fatal city, Antioch,
has consumed all my money;
this fatal city with its expensive life.

But I am young and in excellent health.
My command of Greek is superb
(I know all there is about Aristotle, Plato;
orators, poets, you name it.)
I have an idea of military affairs,
and have friends among the mercenary chiefs.
I am on the inside of administration as well.
Last year I spent six months in Alexandria;
I have some knowledge (and this is useful) of affairs there:
intentions of the Malefactor, and villainies, et cetera.

Therefore I believe that I am fully
qualified to serve this country,
my beloved homeland Syria.

In whatever capacity they place me I shall strive
to be useful to the country. This is my intent.
Then again, if they thwart me with their methods --
we know those able people: need we talk about it now?
if they thwart me, I am not to blame.

First, I shall apply to Zabinas,
and if this moron does not appreciate me,
I shall go to his rival Grypos.
And if this idiot does not hire me,
I shall go straight to Hyrcanos.

One of the three will want me however.

And my conscience is not troubled
about not worrying about my choice.
All three harm Syria equally.

But, a ruined man, why is it my fault.
Wretched man, I am trying to make ends meet.
The almighty gods should have provided
and created a fourth, good man.
Gladly would I have joined him.


As much as you can

Even if you cannot shape your life as you want it,
at least try this
as much as you can; do not debase it
in excessive contact with the world,
in the excessive movements and talk.

Do not debase it by taking it,
dragging it often and exposing it
to the daily folly
of relationships and associations,
until it becomes burdensome as an alien life.


When they are roused

Try to guard them, poet
However few they are that can be held.
The visions of your eroticism.
Set them, half hidden, in your phrases.
Try to hold them, poet,
when they are roused in your mind
at night, or in the noon glare.
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Postby Jeff » Thu May 01, 2008 2:23 pm

et in Arcadia ego wrote:You and I have dated very similar women it seems.

Image


Who knew?

Image

She was a great collage artist, too, and got me hooked on the stuff.

We weren't together long, but fond memories of drinking, cutting and pasting among the vermin.
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Postby compared2what? » Fri May 02, 2008 2:05 am

From the clinically insane, fanatically devout 18th-century poet Christopher Smart's Jubilate Agno:



For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually--Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.
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Postby brainpanhandler » Fri May 02, 2008 3:54 am

Dick Allen


Talking With Poets

Gossip is most of it, a barrier of thorns and small berries
cultivated to disguise a wall,
false entrances and gates with shallow courtyards behind them,
and sometimes a few gypsies slowly dancing in the firelight
or swinging pails as they take a path down through the forest
to an old mossy well. Small heaps of masks,
and costumes with puffy sleeves and threadbare blouses
lie beside the moat, are rummaged through
as often as not. But the poets seldom talk
of forays they've taken; although they are always riding
in and out, mounting or dismounting, holding
the traces, wiping their brows and calling
for strong drink and friends, their verbal reports
are sketchy, reluctant. No, they would rather laugh
than speak of high rooms and the maiden's cot.
Books on stone shelves, what shackled prisoners
they may have been shown... yet if all this sounds
too romantic, consider the cop coming home
to his house in the suburbs, how he pretends
there are no city streets until he walks their shadows;
or the bored to death businessman,
the void he plunges daily, rising out of it
like a circling, wounded hawk, blood under his nails
and in his throat, seeking lethe
in television comedies or children's homework grades;
or the doctor who vanishes
into a nightmare of tumors, and splintered bones,
the cardiographic line of a dead horizon,
CAT scans and mottled skin, before she finds herself
whispering for the mercy of an airplane above layered clouds,
flirtation, oblivion... still, if only the poets
would cease in their talk of grants and reputation,
reviews, or lack of them, readings, teaching loads,
editors, enjambment, then on an autumn evening
when the wall is a looming thing of masonry,
bulwarks and turrets, and a king walks by himself
under limpid banners, how I would love to hear
(for I have read their books, and like you marvelled),
of the way they find blue sailors by a country road,
wander in Sibelius, or how they've taught their lines
to study a landscape starting with morning sunlight
coasting the grass. Talking with poets,
I could be enthralled by cries of Russian wolves,
the smell of vanilla flavoring in an open brown bottle,
what happens when they look at statesmen's eyes-
if only they were not so distrustful, so afraid, so exhausted,
so bent on saving themselves for the perfect man or woman
who will listen to their voices in another time
more living to them now than these roses, these open palms.
"Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity." - Martin Luther King Jr.
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Postby brainpanhandler » Fri May 02, 2008 4:08 am

Jeff wrote:This thread inspired me to go to the basement and finally open a cardboard box stuffed with papers in search of some of my poetry. Fortunately I found none.


And there's some material for a fine poem right there.

Several years ago I went through every bit of poesy I ever wrote, piles and piles and piles of it. I condensed it all down to about six short poems. That is all there was worth keeping.
"Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity." - Martin Luther King Jr.
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Postby Jeff » Fri May 02, 2008 7:02 am

compared2what? wrote:From the clinically insane, fanatically devout 18th-century poet Christopher Smart's Jubilate Agno:


I'd never seen that before. Or read any Smart, for that matter. Just amazing stuff; thanks.

"The Jubilate praises the divine architecture of the natural world. Many modern critics posit that Smart meant the poem to be performed as an alternative to the conventional Anglican liturgical text."

From "fragment C" of Jubilate Agno:


Let Elasah rejoice with Olibanum White or Male Frankinsense from an Arabian tree, good against Catarrhs and Spitting blood from which Christ Jesus deliver me.

Let Adna rejoice with Gum Opopanax from the wounded root of a species of panace Heracleum a tall plant growing to be two or three yards high with many large wings of a yellowish green -- good for old coughs and asthmas.

Let Bedeiah rejoice with Gum Sagapenum flowing from a species of Ferula which grows in Media. Lord have mercy on my breast.

Let Ishijah rejoice with Sago gotten from the inward pith of the breadtree. The Lord Jesus strengthen my whole body.

Let Chelal rejoice with Apios Virginian Liquorice Vetch.

Let Miamin rejoice with Mezereon. God be gracious to Polly and Bess and all Canbury.

Let Zebida rejoice with Tormentil good for hæmorrhages in the mouth even so Lord Jesus.

Let Shemaria rejoice with Riciasides.

Let Jadau rejoice with Flixweed.

Let Shimeon rejoice with Squills.

Let Sheal rejoice with Scorpioides. God be gracious to Legg.

Let Ramiah rejoice with Water-Germander.

Let Jeziah rejoice with Viper's Grass.

Let Machnadebai rejoice with the Mink, a beast.

Let Meremoth rejoice with the Golden Titmouse of Surinam.

Let Mattenai rejoice with Hatchet Vetch.

Let Chelluh rejoice with Horehound.

Let Jaasau rejoice with Bird's foot.

Let Maadai rejoice with Golden Rod.

Let Sharai rejoice with Honey-flower.

Let Shashai rejoice with Smyrnium.

Let Hananiah the son of an apothecary rejoice with Bdellium.

Let Hassenaah rejoice with the White Beet. God be gracious to Hasse and all musicians.
.
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Postby Jeff » Fri May 02, 2008 10:02 am

Leonard Cohen, from Book of Longing

Delay

"I can hold in a great deal; I don't speak
until the waters overflow their banks
and break through the dam."

Thus I was able to delay this book well beyond
the end of the 20th century.


I Am Now Able

I am now able
to sleep twenty hours a day
The remaining four
are spent
telephoning a list
of important people
in order
to say goodnight



back in Montreal

as for the past

children
roshi
songs
Greece
Los Angeles

what was that about?
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Postby compared2what? » Fri May 02, 2008 6:27 pm

Jeff wrote:
compared2what? wrote:From the clinically insane, fanatically devout 18th-century poet Christopher Smart's Jubilate Agno:


I'd never seen that before. Or read any Smart, for that matter. Just amazing stuff; thanks.


You're welcome. I love that poem, and think it's very unjustly regarded as the work of a lunatic rather than the work of a genius, just because he happens to have been both.

If anyone is interested, what appear to be the 1700-plus surviving verses of Jubilate Agno in all their full yet incomplete glory are available online here.
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Postby brainpanhandler » Sat May 03, 2008 11:55 am

For a time when I was a young man in my twenties I would show this poem to women that I met. If they sided with the woman then I knew not to waste my time. If they acted perplexed then maybe it was worth trying to get laid. If they laughed then I knew we had some potential.


Rift


“I can’t live with you anymore,”
she said,
look at you!”

“uuh?” I
asked.

look at you!
sitting in that god
damned
chair!
you belly is sticking out
of your
underwear,
you’ve burnt cigarette
holes in all your
shirts!
all you do is suck
on that god damned
beer,
bottle after bottle,
what do you get out of
that?”

“the damage has been
done,” I told
her.

“what’re you talking
about?”

“nothing matters and
we know nothing matters
and that
matters…”

“you’re drunk!”

“come on, baby, let’s get
along, it’s
easy…”

“not for me! She screamed,
“not for
me!”

she ran into the bathroom to
put on her
makeup.
I got up for another
beer.
I sat back down
just had the new bottle
to my mouth
when she came out of the
bathroom.

“holy shit!” she screamed,
“you’re
disgusting!”

I laughed right into the
bottle, gagged, spit a mouthful of
beer across my
undershirt.

“my god!” she
said.
she slammed the door and
was gone.

I looked at the closed door
and at the doorknob
and strangely
I didn’t feel
alone.

Charles Bukowski
"Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity." - Martin Luther King Jr.
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Postby barracuda » Sun May 04, 2008 4:56 am

À Celle qui est trop gaie


Ta tête, ton geste, ton air
Sont beaux comme un beau paysage;
Le rire joue en ton visage
Comme un vent frais dans un ciel clair.



Le passant chagrin que tu frôles
Est ébloui par la santé
Qui jaillit comme une clarté
De tes bras et de tes épaules.



Les retentissantes couleurs
Dont tu parsèmes tes toilettes
Jettent dans l'esprit des poètes
L'image d'un ballet de fleurs.



Ces robes folles sont l'emblème
De ton esprit bariolé;
Folle dont je suis affolé,
Je te hais autant que je t'aime!



Quelquefois dans un beau jardin
Où je traînais mon atonie,
J'ai senti, comme une ironie,
Le soleil déchirer mon sein,



Et le printemps et la verdure
Ont tant humilié mon coeur,
Que j'ai puni sur une fleur
L'insolence de la Nature.



Ainsi je voudrais, une nuit,
Quand l'heure des voluptés sonne,
Vers les trésors de ta personne,
Comme un lâche, ramper sans bruit,



Pour châtier ta chair joyeuse,
Pour meurtrir ton sein pardonné,
Et faire à ton flanc étonné
Une blessure large et creuse,



Et, vertigineuse douceur!
À travers ces lèvres nouvelles,
Plus éclatantes et plus belles,
T'infuser mon venin, ma soeur!


— Charles Baudelaire Fleurs du Mal, 1857



A Girl Too Gay


Oh, you are lovely! Every heart
Surrenders to your sorceries;
And laughter, like a playful breeze,
Is always blowing your lips apart.



Your health is radiant, infinite,
Superb: When you go down the street
Each mournful passerby you meet
Is dazzled by the blaze of it!



Your startling dresses, overwrought
With rainbow hues and sequined showers,
Bring to a poet's mind the thought
Of a ballet of drunken flowers.



They are the very symbol of
Your gay and crudely colored soul,
As stripèd as a barber's pole,
Exuberant thing I hate and love!



Sometimes when wandering, full of gloom,
In a bright garden, I have felt
Horror for all I touched and smelt:
The world outrageously in bloom,



The blinding yellow sun, the spring's
Raw verdure so rebuked my woes
That I have punished upon a rose
The insolence of flowering things.



Likewise, some evening, I would creep,
When midnight sounds, and everywhere
The sighing of lovers fills the air,
To the hushed alcove where you sleep,



And waken you by violent storm,
And beat you coldly till you swooned,
And carve upon your perfect form,
With care, a deep seductive wound —



And (joy delirious and complete!)
Through those bright novel lips, through this
Gaudy and virgin orifice,
Infuse you with my venom, sweet.



— George Dillon, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)
The most dangerous traps are the ones you set for yourself. - Phillip Marlowe
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