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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4) |
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#251 |
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Don't give them too much though or they go berserk and get too big
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I'm spending today transferring the Avebury poems from a full notebook onto a computer file. The weather's rotten, which is just what I need to get stuck into it Good luck with that - be alert for typos.
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My mantelpiece fairy has a blue dress and she's sitting on a pot holding a real cactus. I also have dragons, a knight in armour, several standing stones and a medieval-looking goblet. I've also got a miniature steam engine like Fred Dibnah's, an old green bus and a Colman's Mustard delivery van Quite an eccentric collection for a mature man - you must be a poet. I hope you enjoy dusting. I love ornaments
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#252 |
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Your Fingers
Your fingers, tiny, fleshy buds, unfold to test the air, all for a feeling of themselves. Smooth, jointless, they reach then curl, hooks around my thumb. Then retreat to the wet heat of your mouth. Tiny explorers of inner and outer worlds. |
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#253 |
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Join Date: Nov 2006
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Quite an eccentric collection for a mature man - you must be a poet. I hope you enjoy dusting.
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Your Fingers
This seems to be about a toddler and the uncluttered style reminds me of The Small Box by Vasko Popa, one of my favourite poems. Unfortunately I'm not allowed to post it here, but Your Fingers is good enough for me
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#254 |
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The Idea
The idea stayed unnoticed there Without a peak or arc, The idea under stagnant air Lay dormant in the dark. Then on the wind from north to south It gradually awoke, It billowed round by word of mouth Like softly whispered smoke. It didn’t fade away or sink, It knocked upon the door, It knocked enough to make them think Excitedly once more. The idea turned as fans increased To ideology And in a restless age released Its own theology. How strange the idea won their praise And masses cheered its seal In beer kellers and alleyways With such fanatic zeal. A flag was flown that brightly swirled, A black design which led Against the red and white unfurled To keep the anger fed. If any spoke of lies and sneered Or walked a different track They regularly disappeared, Unlikely to come back. On nights of deep unbridled hate Triumphant beacons burned, While lands inclined to hesitate Got crushed and quickly learned. Soon camps were built and in each hut The corpses stank for days And freedom's face showed little but A distant haunted gaze. The idea really did impress, The idea bolstered pride, The idea had so much success That fifty million died. © |
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#255 |
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The Idea is a very 'un-Sunday' type of poem - I generally like to post something of a spiritual or rural nature on that day. But as an oldie it needed polishing up and I'm holding back my epic till Monday. Hopefully I'll send in another new one later on today
Looks like it's going to be a night with little sleep for me again. Never mind, I'm making a cappuccino soon and it's nice and warm inside - cushti!
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#256 |
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The idea is one of your best works Musty, and now perfectly polished.
![]() I remember a previous appearance, but not well enough to spot the changes. Ideas still seem to be blamed for atrocities.
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#257 |
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The idea is one of your best works Musty, and now perfectly polished.
![]() Welcome back and thank you very much At times I do despair at how lessons are never learned, there's always some sort of war going on. I like to be positive but watching the news makes it hard.
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#258 |
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Archiver, my man
Welcome back and thank you very much At times I do despair at how lessons are never learned, there's always some sort of war going on. I like to be positive but watching the news makes it hard. The wrong smiley Musty! but I was in time to correct it, thanks.News is awful these days, unless you got loads of shares in weapons manufacture.
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#259 |
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I noticed I'd used the wrong smiley.
The wrong smiley Musty! but I was in time to correct it, thanks. I don't watch the news as much now, I'm not a great fan of depression
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#260 |
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Well no sleep for me. Puked a poem, but it's not nice.
Not Nice. If I was to portray a much brighter day, I'd paint you a picture free of all scripture. If I could just write one poem to right all the wrongs all around, would that be profound? Is it wise to explain the depth of my pain in your beautiful place? Your ugly face? Greed driven corruption and Liposuction and extra Big Macs and plane hijacks. Species extinction! (some distinction) Terrible rhymes from the scene of the crimes. Just can't tell it nice. ![]() Least - not at this price. ![]() Fin. |
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#261 |
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Not Nice.
and extra Big Macs and plane hijacks. It's a grim poem but that's what makes the thread (and the world go round). If everything was the same we'd go mad; constant happy-clappy happiness would be hell and it's only really likely through brainwashing. I remain an optimist on most fronts but well puked I must say
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#262 |
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Bowie Sketch
It's such a funky story How David Bowie grew, Think I'll play Hunky Dory Today the whole way through.
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#263 |
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Men-an-Tol
Men-an-Tol, Men-an-Tol, What was your specific goal? Was that strange appearance tooled To placate the gods who ruled? Three uprights amid the gorse Issuing a Cornish force, In all prehistoric lists Nothing else like you exists. Megalithic 1O1 Built by watchers of the sun, Hole carved in the middle stone, Men-an-Tol you stand alone. © http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%AAn-an-Tol |
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#264 |
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Thanks for your kind words on my piece of ....
![]() Men-an-Tol Did it for me today, thank you. I lived in Cornwall for about ten years, but rarely ventured to that quite rugged area. I'd never heard of those stones, or anything like them before. Another reason to get back down there. ![]() How weird it may have seemed to those sick children who were taken there to be "passed naked through the hole in the middle stone nine times" in order to be healed. I can't imagine how it could have done any of them any good... Do'h - getting miserable again. Time for a walk I think.
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#265 |
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This is tricky. Trying to write some short aids to show correct usage of words which are often used wrongly. Plus trying to make them work together and rhyme.
![]() Would be great if anyone can think of better ones. On any theme, of course, and they don't have to rhyme. Anyway: Were we where we should be? They're there already with their wares, but where's their awareness? No one cares. Its properties are rare. There's folk who claim it's theirs. Then they charge unfair fares to get one nowhere.
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#266 |
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Your Fingers
Glad they're grown up now - but you never stop worrying about them.Quote:
No to the latter Biz but it has to be done. Someone local actually called me eccentric the other week and I was so pleased
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The Idea
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At times I do despair at how lessons are never learned, there's always some sort of war going on. I like to be positive but watching the news makes it hard.
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News is awful these days, unless you got loads of shares in weapons manufacture.
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Not Nice.
Fin. ![]() Quote:
Archiver, when you visit Cornwall why don't you crawl through the stone nine times and see whether the magic still works - it just might cure your pain if you believe. It isn't fair that you are suffering. I hope soon something soon happens in your life to show you that it can be beautiful too.
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#267 |
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Hi Archiver - it doesn't rhyme but I always think :-
Here - there - where, they're related. Their has an I, it belongs. PS It's so simple. Why can't people grasp it? |
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#268 |
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Correction.
Crick is in Northamptonshire. Sorry.
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#269 |
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It's all too horrible to contemplate isn't it. I think I've said before, that I record the news these days, and fast forward through pain and conflict. It isn't that I don't care, maybe I just care too much. If we had a magic wand each we'd wave it and make the world a peaceful place..........so what is He up there thinking of?
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Archiver, when you visit Cornwall why don't you crawl through the stone nine times and see whether the magic still works - it just might cure your pain if you believe. It isn't fair that you are suffering. I hope soon something soon happens in your life to show you that it can be beautiful too. I'm alright Biz, really. And I see so much beauty here and around. Should try to write about that, but it's undescribeabubble. Trees waving in the breeze doesn't come anywhere near what they looked like this evening...
I'll certainly crawl through the stone - if it hasn't crumbled to dust by the time I get there.
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#270 |
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Men-an-Tol Did it for me today, thank you. I lived in Cornwall for about ten years, but rarely ventured to that quite rugged area. I'd never heard of those stones, or anything like them before. Another reason to get back down there.
![]() The best guess for the tradition of passing through holed stones is that they represent portals, entrances to some kind of healing zone. It may be a collective folk memory that lingers on from prehistory, despite the march of time. Cornwall's fascinating and full of obscure ancient sites, I need to return as you do and visit others like Duloe and Lanyon Quoit ![]() I loved your idea of a poem about incorrect word use and I'm working on one inspired by that ![]() Quote:
Like Archiver, I hadn't heard of Men-an-Tol, and I notice on the Wiki page that one of the stones is called the Crick stone
The names of many sites add to their charm I find - often they come from the medieval era and after. At times they have nothing to do with the actual purpose and some bizarre ones can arise, such as Hetty Pegler's Tump which is a favourite of mine Cornwall is a world unto itself still in many ways. As in other areas monuments there frequently refer to game players or revellers that were turned to stone for breaking the Sabbath's strict rule. So we have the Merry Maidens, the Hurlers and the Pipers etc
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#271 |
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Shyness Kills
Although the blessings of each day I count, This autobiographical account Names shyness as a murderer, you’ll find What happens to the victim left behind. At people who would smile and call me ‘cute’ I stared uncomprehending like a mute, An infant sense of why I was detached: The shyness branded on me as I hatched. From harmless adults visiting I’d hide Because of chambers hidden deep inside And then at twelve I lost my friends, I froze When creaking mental doors began to close. You see, the new school’s power was my bane, The shy one in a citadel of pain, No voice at all, so teachers wrote their thoughts, ‘Too reticent, too silent’ on reports. I couldn’t ask or answer anything, I couldn’t speak for fear the words might bring Attention, that most terrible affair, The centre of it still I cannot bear. Of course when you’re as quiet as a mouse It tends to lure the bullies of the house, I caught their need to hit, the verbal spit, Till blinded I fell down into a pit. That’s when the shell first formed, a strange and hard Cocoon to insulate and always guard, The shell, dear God, the suffocating shell, I stayed inside its hollowed-out kernel. Existing in a world where you can dream May comfort but it crumbles self-esteem, Free inside, on the outside I was bound, As worthless as some litter blown around. School terms to sit solidified the curse Of shyness into something even worse, Imagining their looks would cause a blush So deep I cringed at any random hush. The world of work dawned, tense and unprepared I joined it feeling everybody stared And building walls around the shell in stone Meant I was permanently on my own. I filled spare time on solitary jaunts Escaping to the old familiar haunts; From seething Brixton to the brash West End Without a social circle or a friend. Bookshops, art galleries and cinemas Shone light between my lonely prison bars, Romantic too, in love I’d often fall, Yet never date a single girl at all. I watched the others living, having fun, The way required to find your chosen one, Unasked, the plea eternally I’d mime; ‘Would you like to go out with me some time?’ To sleep around bequeaths divinity But mocked are those who keep virginity, The longer it goes on, the more the shame, A secret stops the leper getting blame. I’d done nothing but felt that I’d done wrong, The guilty virgin lies to please the throng And still I seemed marooned within these lands, Among the kissing couples holding hands. I drank too much in hope of lucky breaks, Though drinking too much only brings mistakes, On bleary evenings fruitlessly I strove Until the night of velvet love in Hove. So many different incidents I see Portray how chronic shyness crippled me, Invited to a party, stood outside, Unable to go in although I tried. I heard the music, heard each hearty laugh But that Yule I preferred the homeward path Away from happy guests in life’s great plan Who don’t know what I mean and never can. None would decode my hermitage I feared Until a man called Morrissey appeared Who knew how shyness gouges like a knife; He wrote and sang the soundtrack of my life. Extinguishing the heart, it leaves a hole And deadly rigor mortis of the soul, I took its poison, swallowed bitter pills And now my friend you know how shyness kills. © |
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#272 |
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Join Date: Jun 2011
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Quote:
At times I do despair at how lessons are never learned, there's always some sort of war going on. I like to be positive but watching the news makes it hard.
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#273 |
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Bowie Sketch
It's such a funky story How David Bowie grew, Think I'll play Hunky Dory Today the whole way through. ![]()
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#274 |
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A choice
It wasn't a show or an act it held a truth to some furthermore and by a choice a pure and simple hum let be the ones who try then change there is no blame to bear but think of others of their woes and maybe very words that do care. |
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#275 |
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I'd probably worry more if I didn't keep up with the news. Always hoping for the best, but it just seems to get worse.
![]() I'm alright Biz, really. And I see so much beauty here and around. Should try to write about that, but it's undescribeabubble. Trees waving in the breeze doesn't come anywhere near what they looked like this evening... I'll certainly crawl through the stone - if it hasn't crumbled to dust by the time I get there. ![]() I also find the beauty indescribeabubble (lovely word), though I find strength in it. ![]() As to the horrors around the world, I'm just thankful that I'm not the one who has to attempt to put them right. ![]() Quote:
Shyness Kills
© ![]() If only we knew when young, that the cruel ones are the ones who are lacking and trying to compensate for it. ![]() |
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I love ornaments 
This seems to be about a toddler and the uncluttered style reminds me of The Small Box by Vasko Popa, one of my favourite poems. Unfortunately I'm not allowed to post it here, but Your Fingers is good enough for me
The wrong smiley Musty!
