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a Sketch of Poetry

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  • a Sketch of Poetry

    I wish to write haiku
    with as much force and content and style as Prometheus Unbound
    by P. Shelley;
    three lines and as many syllables as there are feet of children.

    I want to dream rondeaux, forgetting
    the C that spins into an O.

    Anne or Sylv, gaping unto death
    for what, I ask.

    "For caring?"

    . .. .

    Tanka poetry of assassins who kill all
    without being seen,
    a friction that is silent; budges as
    the walls start to gather impressions

    and suck up the chimney flute all
    my bird calls, until you
    and I don't have to be schizophrenic anymore.

    nor our dark morning cries ask for more money.

    . . .. . .

    Did the poet-to-be ever stop worrying?

    I've begun my carpentry in heaven.
    Heaven is too empty.

    i've called to
    my unborn daughter, and her son,
    having spoken about them
    approximately
    for 10+ plus years.

    Have sex in a chatroom, get a virus,
    scare your neighbors,
    fish in the sewer,
    back log of green blips, and bad ideas.

    . .. . ... ..

    Maybe. My word, God Jesus
    Mother as Church between you,
    with Mary listening
    to your heart beating
    in my silent
    shattered center.

    Pain undissolved.

    Blake, and co. Everyone apparently knows

    His color, and Rimbaud
    more like Stallone
    because there is no explanation for
    Seagal and Barnaby and Bartok

    and my Germanic Jews ...
    And remembering nothing.

    Hitler and ice and silence
    stench of consciencevwafteing from bodies
    sweating from the close fire.

    Repression, hate, martial arts.
    Pain no longer bothers you?

    . .. .

    G·d.

    The hidden name which does accord
    Bacchus' wine
    Saturnalias from flowers who only ask to
    See and be seen
    More Sun
    More wind

    uncaring either way.


    . . .. . . ..

    When the strength leaves my bones
    and Egypt sends its cursed dogs out
    After the chariot,
    and you say my name --
    fire in my mouth.

    Not disappointed, but very jaded.
    Is there a difference?

    One person
    All day

    Sacristry
    Fear
    Nodes
    Lover
    Not enough?

    My lodestone
    My Golden Compass

    pitiful women
    pitiful men

    boy without hope
    breasts perfect
    perky

    without brainwashing
    without Ultra marine
    without Timpani
    Confineless.

    Your staccato heart beat
    Axis Mundi
    Aqua Permanens
    The strongest tide I have ever known

    from the center
    I impress you.

    yet if you were to scream my name
    with bilious
    and sacrilege idiots
    hurting you

    I would misunderstand.

    I am like Billy Madison
    or Drew Gold or
    Adam Sandler
    without a soul mate
    or the x²:
    twin-flame
    that was on a coke can.

    Buy my love, dear.

    But you cannot stand the hate?

    . . .. . .

    Missing houri
    tunnel of colors or fun that others leave
    to me.

    To hear
    your most pitiful grievance
    to know
    God's name
    in relation to that.

    Abrasax,
    amphibion,
    little pads to swim
    my red little friend.

    co-create on the hairy back
    of a spider,
    flies buzzing in dance.

    Pools of spit and tongue hung by the tomb.

    Atum-rê

    Eggs from mummification to wrongness to
    Cancer to Pisces
    to Mars.

    Scramble my brains with a sharp strong stick
    up through my fearful
    invisible nose;
    the Asp that swallowed a darkened moon:

    and Watch the Sun dancing again.

    Nothing wrong,
    nothing right.

    A ritual on My watery face
    I take care.
    R.I.T.U.A.L
    Vitriol.

    Her beauty his beauty the mom.

    Morning darkness slight wind
    sussorous
    Sex magic and trees and seeds.
    Dead seeds.

    Ice³.

    No more that we or I or alone a soul could be lost;
    a greater man than anyone
    Promise.
    His cry could get me to do things
    if I ever hear his voice
    if I listen hard enough

    Torture the King
    Sacrifice his Queen.

    Beneath the bandages I
    Ahmose and my Art.

    Feudal to fealty to unimpressed to unshaken.

    Little nuns, breaking.

    Missionary work around S. Africa
    Afraid to leave the country
    Afraid to live here too.

    USA
    where the blame
    doesn't matter.

    Where Trump with his remote
    I don't care.

    Politicky and I dont worry.

    Try to sway persuade me
    And we see through.

    Pain for a million years to see one sheer glimpse
    of the tithed field where
    with her stringy hair she gets wet
    your feet and warms with her breath.

    Rööt to Mara.
    Htuk.
    Çatal Iyayük.

    Aramaic bard,
    Yiddish,
    Saratoga with tears
    and my black grandmother,
    Aunt Jemima.

    Stephen K.
    and her rocking chair
    Every book I forgot the name of.

    Ending loom.

    Show me,
    not tell me.

    But then when you do tell me its so much more
    Special.

    Non-abrasive
    No repeat.

    Double-entendre driven into the ground.

    Publish me.

    What means more
    than fame or money?

    Answer me.

  • #2
    Fascinating, amenOra. I think you've covered just about everything; I feel like I've swallowed a cosmos, with its stars all prickly hot. Your style here and elsewhere reminds me of T S Eliot.

    Comment


    • #3
      you sure have a lot of ideas in your sketch!

      Comment


      • #4
        wrote this in my yard in the morn before daybreak...
        I wished to be a poet.
        I'm not sure what I really get.

        in programming terms, this is how I feel.
        "this is a fundamental dead-lock and resource starvation where one philosopher ... [makes a decision, and that is a fork.]

        I am so completely showing off, too. thats what I want for everyone: rightful pride.

        speaking of Eliot, it makes sense, Grant. I basically lump him with Pound and a few other poets.

        whereas bukowski and Ferlenghetti (whom ive only read recently, and love despite that; referred by buk) they both are after those poets. The mystery set up by the 18th century, the impending fear I felt, perhaps ... and how the Poets (unacknowledged legislators) cleared the way.


        more energy maybe. which makes me uncomfortable, some times.

        thanks lots, im glad you two stopped by.

        im pleased with the poem, despite the errors which glare at me, very glad to share, as always.

        I still get my dates wrong, tho, which is ... unforgivable. lol

        yea, and rogue, I am also glad you took the time to read my mini-epic poem!

        ​​​​​​​mucho appreciado.

        Comment


        • #5
          Poets are unacknowledged legislators indeed. Thank you for the insight into your work. A stylistic explosion yet full of sensibility. Kudos
          Last edited by lunar glide; 02-20-2017, 06:17 PM.

          Comment


          • #6
            Quite beyond me - and yet have read through several times. My only answer to what I suppose is the rhetorical question at the end - is love (and that perceived in so many words and ways).

            Comment


            • amenOra
              amenOra commented
              Editing a comment
              honing in, and since i dont understand either ... What, is beyond you?

          • #7
            love. thanks, i would agree. true love

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