Re: Friday Poetry


The Elephant is Slow to Mate
by D. H. Lawrence

The elephant, the huge old beast,
is slow to mate;
he finds a female, they show no haste
they wait

for the sympathy in their vast shy hearts
slowly, slowly to rouse
as they loiter along the river-beds
and drink and browse

and dash in panic through the brake
of forest with the herd,
and sleep in massive silence, and wake
together, without a word.

So slowly the great hot elephant hearts
grow full of desire,
and the great beasts mate in secret at last,
hiding their fire.

Oldest they are and the wisest of beasts
so they know at last
how to wait for the loneliest of feasts
for the full repast.

They do not snatch, they do not tear;
their massive blood
moves as the moon-tides, near, more near
till they touch in flood.

Posted by: knecht ruprecht | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:23 AM
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There once was chicken in a bucket,
whose grease had congealed on the buffet.
This rhyme is full of win,
except if pronouncin'
words rightly makes you articulate.

Posted by: Moby Hick | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:25 AM
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Früher, da ich unerfahren
Und bescheidner war als heute,
Hatten meine höchste Achtung
Andre Leute.

Später traf ich auf der Weide
Ausser mir noch mehr Kälber,
Und nun schätz ich, sozusagen,
Erst mich selber.

- Wilhelm Busch

Posted by: knecht ruprecht | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:26 AM
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Thou shalt have one God only; who
Would be at the expense of two?
No graven images may be
Worshipp'd, except the currency:
Swear not at all; for, for thy curse
Thine enemy is none the worse:
At church on Sunday to attend
Will serve to keep the world thy friend:
Honour thy parents; that is, all
From whom advancement may befall:
Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive
Officiously to keep alive:
Do not adultery commit;
Advantage rarely comes of it:
Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,
When it's so lucrative to cheat:
Bear not false witness; let the lie
Have time on its own wings to fly:
Thou shalt not covet; but tradition
Approves all forms of competition.

- Arthur Hugh Clough

Posted by: chris y | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:30 AM
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The universe: a question
The moat: a cathexis
What have we done? On Rhodes, man
On Samos, dog
Sleeping with women
In the rain and in the sun
The dog has a red eye, it is November
Asleep and sleeping with them, sleeping with women
This June: a boy
October: sleeping with women
The motto: a sign; the bridge: a definition.
To the goat: destroy; to the rain: be a settee.
O rain of joy: sleeping with women, asleep and sleeping with them.
Volcano, Naples, Caruso, asleep and sleeping, asleep and sleeping with them
The window, the windrow, the hedgerow, irretrievable blue,
Sleeping with women, the haymow, asleep and sleeping with them, the canal
Asleep and sleeping with them, the eagle's feather, the dock's weather, and the
Sleeping with you; asleep and sleeping with you: sleeping with women.
Sleeping with women, charming aspirin, as in the rain, as in the snow,
Asleep and sleeping with you: as if the crossbow, as of the moonlight
Sleeping with women: as if the tractate, as if d'Annunzio
Asleep and sleeping with you, asleep with women
Asleep and sleeping with you, asleep with women, asleep and sleeping with
you, sleeping with women

Posted by: Cryptic ned | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:30 AM
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Do not say, my sweet, I am unkind
That I upset your day
And having on your breakfast dined
I have just this to say.

True, your icebox now I loot
Of plums you'd set aside;
As cold and sweet as any fruit
That yet by me was tried.

Yet this nocturnal snack is such
As makes me none the worse:
I could not love thee, dear, so much
Had you ne'er inspired verse.

Posted by: nosflow | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:30 AM
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The Garden of Love
by William Blake

I went to the Garden of Love,
And I saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not. Writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

Posted by: knecht ruprecht | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:33 AM
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Where is the confessional slam poetry from James B. Shearer?

Posted by: Robert Halford | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:34 AM
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Bob wants the wind to blow constantly
because as a kite
he'd be happy
on a string in the sky
pulling against the ground forever

he'd be the only one happy
"why does the wind blow so much?
only good for kites and sailboats
and damned if i got a sailboat."


beef jerky is
soaked in salty beef soup
for a hundred years
is what bob wishes
he could have for dinner
every night for a week
...and pepsi


what if one day the sun didn't set
but stayed out all night
like a lost cat

that found it's way home
late the next day
but scared everyone silly
the whole night long

we'd remember that night
for a long time

that's what bob wants
for the day when he dies
that the sun will stay out
all night long

so everyone will "remember
when bob died?
the sun didn't set
but stayed out all night
like a lost cat...


when the sun went down
the cat stayed
out all night, bob found out
by waiting on the steps till daylight

but later after a bit
the cat came back
and meowed at bob
scolding him
for not letting her have her freedom
she felt trapped
and needed some time to herself

now bob sulks on tiptoes
to give the cat space
while the cat looks at him
and shakes her head


bob's brother says "Bob,
when i was a kid
i had this girl
and how
and she dumped me
and i thought about killing myself
i thought she was something special, then
but i never quite did

and now that i'm older i'm glad
i never quite did it
cause since then
i've got to dump plenty of chicks
and i never talk to them again

so i don't know but
but, i kinda hope
that they felt like killing themselves
cause that's what it's all about
you know?
that's how it always ends up

but you gotta be the one dumping
cause feeling like you want to kill yourself
over losing someone
that's the worst
worse than anything
cause dead seems like the only place where she isn't
but it's too scary to go there.
so Bob,
don't worry about the cat
there are other cats. God."

Posted by: cleek | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:39 AM
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An explorer from South Carolina
Who'd spent many years criss-crossing China
Claimed a woman he'd met
In the snows of Tibet
Really did have a sideways vagina.

Posted by: MAE | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:40 AM
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I'm farting in the seat!
I'm farting in the hall!
I'm farting in your face!
I'm farting on the wall!


Posted by: Sifu Tweety | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:41 AM
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Where's the confessional slam poetry from Jason Pettus?

Posted by: Cryptic ned | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:42 AM
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Cydonian spring with her attendant train,
Maelids and water-girls,
Stepping beneath a boisterous wind from Thrace,
Throughout this sylvan place
Spreads the bright tips,
And every vine-stock is
Clad in new brilliancies.
And wild desire
Falls like black lightning.
O bewildered heart,
Though every branch have back what last year lost,
She, who moved here amid the cyclamen,
Moves only now a clinging tenuous ghost.

Posted by: nosflow | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:44 AM
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As if amazed it's his,
he holds his hand up
before the mirror, hand
too big now for the boy's
body, hand he's turning
slowly front to back
to front, then closes to
a fist he just as slowly
opens like an exotic
flower to its full extent.

The boy so newly merged
with the emerging man
it's hard to say what's boy
or man but for the eyes,
the boyish rapt confusion
in the look he looks
with at his mobile features
as he draws a blunt finger
over the shadow of hair
along his upper lip.

Shadow of hair in armpit,
crotch, voice deeper
than it was, then higher,
deeper, while the eyes
astounded, furtive, are the eyes
of someone who can not
quite wake up from the dream
in which he suddenly
discovers he is naked
among a crowd of strangers--

or like the eyes of Laika,
Soviet space dog,
in an old drawing
I remember, the stunned,
not yet distrusting but
no longer trusting look
from within the comical
glass bubble of the gawky
helmet tilted atop
the comical white spacesuit,

as the spaceship hurtles
out toward the stars, the earth
a star behind it, the earnest
dog eyes fixed on black
space like a door
the masters have walked through
and will return from, surely.
Surely they'll come to get me.
Surely they didn't love me
all that time for this.

Posted by: nosflow | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:46 AM
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As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves--goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.

Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is--
Chríst--for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.

-- Gerard Manley Hopkins

Posted by: LizardBreath | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:47 AM
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"I haven't been. Go, look, see for yourself.
But, Warren, please remember how it is:
He's come to help you ditch the meadow.
He has a plan. You mustn't laugh at him.
He may not speak of it, and then he may.

I'll sit and see if that small sailing cloud
Will hit or miss the moon."

It hit the moon.
Then there were three there, making a dim row,
The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.

Warren returned--too soon, it seemed to her,
Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited.

"Warren," she questioned.

"Dead," was all he answered.

From The Death of the Hired Man,
Robert Frost 1915

Posted by: bill | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:00 AM
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Put My Dick On It

"I'm getting all wet," she told me in the rain
I hear it all the time, and yet I can't complain
Let me take your coat, don't wanna drip on it
"No thank you cause you're gonna put your dick on it"

I see a lemon muffin
I put my dick on it
I see a coffee cup and
I put my dick on it
I see a big butt and
I put my dick on it
First I ask permission then I put my dick on it

I see a white car
I put my dick on it
I see a red car
I put my dick on it
I see any car
I put my dick on it
I like transportation, so I put my dick on it

In the hood, a cop pulls up beside me
Officer just can't stop eyeing me
He says, "Wise up, you better get a grip on it.
I know what you're into."

Damn cop car I wanna put my dick on it
Please drive away I wanna put my dick on it
Find a real crime before I put my dick on it
I think I'm ice cold gonna put my dick on it

It's like ice cream, I wanna put my dick on it
Cold and clean, yeah, I wanna put my dick on it
Gimme just a second let me put my dick on it
Get a piece of tape and stick a damn ticket on it

-- Crudbump

Posted by: gswift | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:01 AM
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Hypothetical political lyrical miracle whip
Just like butter, my rhymes are legit
Cause I'm the humpty, not humpty dumpty, but humpty hump
Here a hump, there a hump, everywhere a hump

Posted by: Cryptic ned | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:03 AM
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If I'd known it was going to be that sort of party...

Posted by: LizardBreath | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:04 AM
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Possibly the greatest poem containing six words or less.

"Their Sex Life"

One failure on
Top of another

-A.R. Ammons

Posted by: apostropher | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:04 AM
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One of my favorites. Google did not yield a good English translation, so I've appended an amateur one.

Sachliche Romanze

Als sie einander acht Jahre kannten
(und man darf sagen: sie kannten sich gut),
kam ihre Liebe plötzlich abhanden,
Wie andern Leuten ein Stock oder Hut.

Sie waren traurig, betrugen sich heiter,
versuchten Küsse, als ob nichts sei,
und sahen sich an und wußten nicht weiter.
Da weinte sie schließlich. Und er stand dabei.

Vom Fenster aus konnte man Schiffen winken.
Er sagte, es wäre schon Viertel nach Vier
und Zeit, irgendwo Kaffee zu trinken.
Nebenan übte ein Mensch Klavier.

Sie gingen ins kleinste Café am Ort
und rührten in ihren Tassen.
Am Abend saßen sie noch immer dort.
Sie saßen allein, und sie sprachen kein Wort
und konnten es einfach nicht fassen.

- Erich Kästner

Objective Romance

When they had known one another eight years
(and it's safe to say they knew each other well),
Their love abruptly went missing.
Like others might lose a cane or a hat.

They were sad, deceived each other blithely,
attempted kisses, as if nothing were wrong.
And they looked at each other, and despaired.
Finally she started crying. And he just stood there.

Outside the window, ships were close enough to beckon.
He said it's already quarter after four
and time to go drink a coffee.
Next door, someone was practicing piano.

They went to the smallest café in town
and sat stirring in their cups.
At nightfall they sat there still.
They sat alone, and didn't speak a word.
They simply couldn't grasp it.

Posted by: knecht ruprecht | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:08 AM
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"My Sex Life"

In a mirror

-A.D. Harvey

Posted by: Sifu Tweety | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:09 AM
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Good timing. I don't generally go looking for poetry, but the two Edward Thomas poems quoted in the NYRB article have both been stuck in my head.

Digging [II]

To-day I think
Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,
And the square mustard field;

Odours that rise
When the spade wounds the root of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,
Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell, too,
Flowing from where a bonfire burns
The dead, the waste, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns.

It is enough
To smell, to crumble the dark earth,
While the robin sings over again
Sad songs of Autumn mirth.

Posted by: NickS | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:10 AM
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Does a poem contain its title? neb?

Posted by: Minivet | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:11 AM
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One for all the whisky drinkers...

Scotch Drink
by Robert Burns

Let other poets raise a fracas
"Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus,
An' crabbit names an'stories wrack us,
An' grate our lug:
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.

O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,
To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An' aits set up their awnie horn,
An' pease and beans, at e'en or morn,
Perfume the plain:
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o'food!
Or tumblin in the boiling flood
Wi' kail an' beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us leevin;
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,
When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin;
But, oil'd by thee,
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,
Wi' rattlin glee.

Thou clears the head o'doited Lear;
Thou cheers ahe heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil;
Though even brightens dark Despair
Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet, humbly kind in time o' need,
The poor man's wine;
His weep drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts,
By thee inspired,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fir'd.

That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin on a New-year mornin
In cog or bicker,
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz an freath
I' th' luggit caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At every chap.

Nae mercy then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an' studdie ring an reel,
Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirling weanies see the light,
Though maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin' cuiffs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.

When neibors anger at a plea,
An' just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley brie
Cement the quarrel!
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my muse has reason,
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
But mony daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nice,
An' hardly, in a winter season,
E'er Spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash!
Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash!
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
O' half his days;
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor, plackless devils like mysel'!
It sets you ill,
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gouts torment him, inch by inch,
What twists his gruntle wi' a glunch
O' sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch
Wi' honest men!

O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks!
Accept a bardie's gratfu' thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes-they rattle in their ranks,
At ither's a-s!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast
May kill us a';
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast
Is ta'en awa?

Thae curst horse-leeches o' the' Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An' bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor damn'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill,
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,
Tak a' the rest,
An' deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

Posted by: knecht ruprecht | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:33 AM
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From the post, you'd've thought Heebie intended us to post our own writing. Everyone here is, however, too busy showing off the breadth of their erudite reading to do that, though.

Posted by: nosflow | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:36 AM
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I just happened to have a book of fart poetry to hand.

Posted by: Sifu Tweety | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:38 AM
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2 to 26.

Posted by: Moby Hick | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:38 AM
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Possibly the greatest poem containing six words or less.

Or fewer!

Posted by: nosflow | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:38 AM
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For the Unfoggedycon sex grotto:

W.H. Auden - The Love Feast

In an upper room at midnight
See us gathered on behalf
Of love according to the gospel
Of the radio-phonograph.

Lou is telling Anne what Molly
Said to Mark behind her back;
Jack likes Jill who worships George
Who has the hots for Jack.

Catechumens make their entrance;
Steep enthusiastic eyes
Flicker after tits and baskets;
Someone vomits; someone cries.

Willy cannot bear his father,
Lilian is afraid of kids;
The Love that rules the sun and stars
Permits what He forbids.

Adrian's pleasure-loving dachshund
In a sinner's lap lies curled;
Drunken absent-minded fingers
Pat a sinless world.

Who is Jenny lying to
In her call, Collect, to Rome?
The Love that made her out of nothing
Tells me to go home.

But that Miss Number in the corner
Playing hard to get. . . .
I am sorry I'm not sorry . . .
Make me chaste, Lord, but not yet.

Posted by: LizardBreath | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:39 AM
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29: Indeed.

Posted by: apostropher | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:40 AM
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6 is a nosflow original, correct? If so, an impressive pastiche! If only WCW had your mastery of verse forms!

Is 9 an original as well? In any case, I enjoyed it very much.

Posted by: peep | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:41 AM
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6 is a nosflow original.

Posted by: nosflow | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:43 AM
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W.B. Yeats, "The Second Goatse"

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The butt-falcon cannot hear the butt-falconer;
Things pull apart; the centre can hold, like, a canned ham;
Mere assarchy is loosed upon the world,
The GIF-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all virality, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming Of Goatse is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the rec rooms of the suburbs.

A shape with masssive, hanger-life rectum and hopefully the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant rickrolled internet people.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards imgur to be viewed?

Posted by: Sifu Tweety | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:44 AM
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And I've been avoiding Yeats because I thought he'd be too stuffy for me to relate to.

Posted by: Moby Hick | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:45 AM
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Based on 34, far too stuffy.

Posted by: nosflow | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:47 AM
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Since I'm pretty sure nosflow posted 6 previously, I'll go ahead with this one:

In the Great Hall where Lady Ann by firelight after dining alone
nodded and dreamed that her cousin Rathwell turned into a unicorn,
and woke shuddering, and was helped to her chambers, undressed,
and looked after, and in the morning arose to read Mrs. Hemans,
sitting prettily on a garden bench, with no sound disturbing
her whorled ear but the wind and the wind's apples falling,
the servants

tended fires, answered bells, plucked grouse, rolled sward, fetched
eggs, clipped hedge, mended linen, baked scones, and served tea.
While Lady Ann grew pale playing the piano, and lay late in bed aging,
she regretted Rathwell who ran off to Ceylon with his indescribable
desires, and vanished--leaving her to the servants who poached, larked,
drank up the cellar, emigrated without notice, copulated, conceived,
and begot us.

--Donald Hall

Posted by: Minivet | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:47 AM
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Life and other things
Came between us.
Might have made it
If it wasn't for them.

Posted by: peep | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:52 AM
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Whose woods are these I cannot tell.
They came without a plastic shell;
it looks as though they've had a scratch.
I can't remember such a match.

My horse believed that it was little
and gorged itself on bitter victual;
meanwhile my clubs are scattered here
my balls are sunk in waters clear.

Thinks I to kick my horse awake,
the apples that he munched was fake.
and now the only thing I smell
is like the netherparts of Nell.

And Nell is gone, I can't say where.
I'm trying very hard to care,
for equis hind is lovely rare,
and equis hind is lovely rare.

Posted by: text | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 8:58 AM
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There once was a horse-riding chap
Who took a trip in a cold snap
He stopped in the snow
But he soon had to go:
He was miles away from a nap.

--Lore Sjoberg

Posted by: Minivet | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 9:03 AM
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Man, the second line is metrically awful.

Posted by: nosflow | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 9:04 AM
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why you so mean, nosflow?

Posted by: text | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 9:10 AM
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For the Unfoggedycon sex grotto

Also this one:

Tell me no more of minds embracing minds,
And hearts exchang'd for hearts;
That spirits spirits meet, as winds do winds,
And mix their subt'lest parts;
That two unbodied essences may kiss,
And then like Angels, twist and feel one Bliss.

I was that silly thing that once was wrought
To practise this thin love;
I climb'd from sex to soul, from soul to thought;
But thinking there to move,
Headlong I rolled from thought to soul, and then
From soul I lighted at the sex again.

As some strict down-looked men pretend to fast,
Who yet in closets eat;
So lovers who profess they spirits taste,
Feed yet on grosser meat;
I know they boast they souls to souls convey,
Howe'r they meet, the body is the way.

Come, I will undeceive thee, they that tread
Those vain aerial ways
Are like young heirs and alchemists misled
To waste their wealth and days,
For searching thus to be for ever rich,
They only find a med'cine for the itch.

- William Cartwright

Posted by: knecht ruprecht | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 9:15 AM
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I just noticed the typo in 34. "Hanger-like", dammit.

Posted by: Sifu Tweety | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 10:16 AM
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HANGAR-like! Argh!

Posted by: Sifu Tweety | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 10:17 AM
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Kingsley Amis, "Aberdarcy: The Main Square":

By the new Boots, a tool-chest with flagpoles
Glued on, and flanges, and a dirty great
Baronial doorway, and things like portholes,
Evans met Mrs Rhys on their first date

Beau Nash House, that sells Clothes for Gentlemen,
Jacobethan, every beam nailed on tight --
Real wood, though, mind you -- was in full view when
Lunching at the Three Lamps, she said all right.

And he dropped her beside the grimy hunk
Of castle, that with luck might one day fall
On to the Evening Post, the time they slunk
Back from that lousy week-end in Porthcawl.

The journal of some bunch of architects
Named this the worst town centre they could find;
But how disparage what so well reflects
Permanent tendencies of heart and mind?

All love demands a witness: something "there"
Which it yet makes part of itself. These two
Might find Carlton House Terrace, St Mark's Square
A bit on the grand side. What about you?

Posted by: Flippanter | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 12:31 PM
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Report to Crazy Horse

All the Sioux were defeated. Our clan
got poor, but a few got richer.
They fought two wars. I did not
take part. No one remembers your vision
or even your real name. Now
the children go to town and like
loud music. I married a Christian.

Crazy Horse, it is not fair
to hide a new vision from you.
In our schools we are learning
to take aim when we talk, and we have
found out our enemies. They shift when
words do; they even change and hide
in every person. A teacher here says
hurt or scorned people are places
where real enemies hide. He says
we should not hurt or scorn anyone,
but help them. And I will tell you
in a brave way, the way Crazy Horse
talked: that teacher is right.

I will tell you a strange thing:
at the rodeo, close to the grandstand,
I saw a farm lady scared by a blown
piece of paper; and at that place
horses and policemen were no longer
frightening, but suffering faces were,
and the hunched-over backs of the old.

Crazy Horse, tell me if I am right:
these are the things we thought we were
doing something about.

In your life you saw many strange things,
and I will tell you another: now I salute
the white man's flag. But when I salute
I hold my hand alertly on the heartbeat
and remember all of us and how we depend
on a steady pulse together. There are those
who salute because they fear other flags
or mean to use ours to chase them:
I must not allow my part of saluting
to mean this. All of our promises,
our generous sayings to each other, our
honorable intentions--those I affirm
when I salute. At these times it is like
shutting my eyes and joining a religious
colony at prayer in the gray dawn
in the deep aisles of a church.

Now I have told you about new times.
Yes, I know others will report
different things. They have been caught
by weak ways. I tell you straight
the way it is now, and it is our way,
the way we were trying to find.

The chokecherries along our valley
still bear a bright fruit. There is good
pottery clay north of here. I remember
our old places. When I pass the Musselshell
I run my hand along those old grooves in the rock.

- William Stafford

Posted by: bill | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 1:16 PM
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Let us go there, her and me
with a pant tear just below the knee
like a bauble mobilized inside a cradle.

Posted by: text | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 2:24 PM
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What poetry thread would be complete without a link to the classic spam poetry thread at Making Light? I also just noticed that Jackmormon contributed to it at #91.

Posted by: Dave W. | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 3:57 PM
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What poetry thread would be complete without a link to the classic spam poetry thread at Making Light? I also just noticed that Jackmormon contributed to it at #91.

Posted by: Dave W. | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 3:57 PM
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Sorry about the double post - not sure what happened there.

Posted by: Dave W. | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 3:58 PM
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Whose blog this is I think I know
He quit the place a while ago
Our clever quips remain unread
He's pussywhipped, it's said, or dead

The front page posters carry on
as if the Lur had never gone
Though nowadays a year can pass
Without a post on Ms. Biel's ass

They soldier on and feed the beast
(or those in state employ, at least)
But LB's smarts and Heebie's drolerie
can never match his auto-trollery

The comment threads remain the place
for the involuntary chaste
to glimpse a world their wit creates
and mocks with cries of "Fuck you, clown!"
and mocks with cries of "Fuck you, clown!"

Posted by: knecht ruprecht | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 4:14 PM
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Why does everyone want to be mean to the clown? Just once I'd like a poem to end with a nice word for the clown, howaboutit?

Posted by: text | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 4:23 PM
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My kid just brought home his work from this quarter and coincidentally they were doing poetry.

Once I was flying a plane
and it started to rain
The rain started to stain
and then I could not see
and I flew into a tree.
Trees are planted in the ground
Their roots do not make a sound
Nice green leaves that give us air
Sometimes we don't care.
My family lives in a brown house
and once the downstairs cat caught a mouse.
Once I ate a smelly fruit
and then I heard a rotten toot.
I ran upstairs and jumped in bed.
Then I hurt and bumped my head.
Then I ate some jelly.
I have a tattoo on my arm
It looks like a picture of a charm.
I have a tattoo on my head
It looks like a guy lying dead.
I have a tattoo on my brain
I know it kind of sounds insane.
I have a tattoo on my face
It is a big disgrace.
I have a tattoo on my ear
It makes it so I can not hear.
I have tattoos all over my body
the way I bought them is I won the lottery.
Fire fire in the sky
the flames are burning up high
The fire is getting high
The sun is yellow
The sky high is very blue
I finished this haiku.
I have a pet monkey
He lives in the zoo
with the other monkeys
and sometimes me too
I love my monkey
even though he lives in a cage
once he got out
and jumped on the zoo's stage.
Then a zookeeper came and said to me
"Keep your monkey he is bad, I can see."
Now my monkey lives on a desk
on top of a book shelf
I thought it best.
Old Mr. Bones
the skeleton of Mr. Jones
He made a army of clones
The clones walked far away
Where I just can't say
and old Mr. bones was found
a million miles away.
The earth is made of water
the earth is made of land
the earth is mountains
the earth is made of sand.
Snow is fun
snow is dumb
snow makes your fingers numb.
Books are long and
books are short
Some books make you start to snort.
Apples are red
apples are green
some are yellow
as you have probably seen.
So when you are sitting
next to a tree
look up and you may see
apples green yellow or red
and one might fall on your head.
(That's about half of them, he made a whole book.)

Posted by: SP | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 5:13 PM
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I like the one about the monkey best.

Posted by: text | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 5:46 PM
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Here are the rest.
Monsters are scary
Monsters are mean
Some monsters are even dark shades of green.
Some are yellow
Some are blue
Some are chasing after you.
Buy don't be scared
Because by the way
Monsters only eat bales of hay.
But when they get sick
They turn really bad
So if a sick monster is after you
Run away and lock it up in the zoo.
Snow is falling from the sky
up very very high.
Run, run play in the snow
Put on a snowman show
Give him a carrot nose
and some nice clothes.
Bertie the bear
He doesn't have a lair.
But he doesn't care,
He's caught a fat hare
He eats in a tree
Where nobody can see
Except for me.
Trees, bees, honey, and leaves
Wood for a house and the honey for am mouse.
One day I was walking on a house
Then I jumped up and fell in a blouse
I screamed, I died and lay on my side
Then I woke up in bed
With an ice pack on my head.
My buttons, I find them everywhere.
Some make people stare
But I don't care.
My buttons are silver and
My buttons are gold
Some are diamond
As I have been told.
Once I found one covered in mold.
I don't like when they are sold,
Even if they are very old.
The sand castle.
It towers over the sea
As tall as a car
And it stretches out really far
Right over the sea
All the way out to me.
Once I was walking
Looking at cars
Then I fell down
And saw a lot of stars.
Then I got up
With a crack on my head
And then I was in
A hospital bed.
I like to watch the bull
Who really hates red
And when he runs hard and misses
He really hurts his head.
I like to watch the dog
Who likes to chase the frog
And when the dog jumps and misses
He ends up in a bog.
I like to watch the pig
Who dances a silly jig
And when the pig gets bored
He starts to dig and dig.
I like to watch the cat
Who likes to chase the rat
And when the cat jumps
He hits a baseball bat.
Spelling tests, lunchtime
Computer lab and
Homonyms, homophones
Orange crayons
Orange pencils
Licking the ice cream cones from summer are all gone.
Friends friends I have a lot of
Red friends and black friends.
I don't care what color
Elephants are my friends
Nobody is not my friend.
Dinosaurs are my friends
See everyone is my friend.

Posted by: SP | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 6:05 PM
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the second to last of those is nice.

Posted by: text | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 6:10 PM
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I think I ran out of parody poetry years ago.

Posted by: fake accent | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 6:21 PM
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'Twas a girl banged her head on a wall
Hard enough that she did indeed fall
She thought it'd be fine
To nurse a nice wine,
Now doesn't feel good after all.

Posted by: Di Kotimy | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 6:24 PM
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Where is the confessional slam poetry from James B. Shearer?

I am not much of a poet. My ancestor, Winifred Welles, still has a few fans though.

Posted by: James B. Shearer | Link to this comment | 04-12-13 7:15 PM
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I have a terrible cold,
And everyone knows how terrible colds
Alter the whole system of the universe,
Set us against life,
And make even metaphysics sneeze.
I have wasted the whole day blowing my nose.
My head is aching vaguely.
Sad condition for a minor poet!
Today I am really and truly a minor poet.
What I was in old days was a wish; it's gone.

Goodbye for ever, queen of fairies!
Your wings were made of sun, and I am walking here.
I shan't get well unless I go and lie down on my bed.
I never was well except lying down on the Universe.

Excusez un peu ... What a terrible cold! ... it's
I need truth and aspirin.

- Fernando Pessoa

Posted by: Awl | Link to this comment | 04-13-13 8:19 AM
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Dammit, I always come a day late... Laydeez

Posted by: Awl | Link to this comment | 04-13-13 8:23 AM
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Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.

Posted by: Mary Catherine | Link to this comment | 04-13-13 9:25 PM
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Let us go then, go and lie,
To the people; the press supine with tight shut eyes
Like a drunkard passed-out beneath a table;
Let us go, with fatuous half-truths and deceits
The fact-checkers in retreat.
Through the ballrooms and lobbies of Washington hotels
And dim-lit restaurants with oyster-shells:
No one challenges our tedious arguments,
Our cynical intent.
Nobody asks a probing question....
Oh, do not ask, "That's not true, is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the green room the interns come and go
Talking of Marco Rubio.


Posted by: cleek | Link to this comment | 04-14-13 8:49 AM
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