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Mudcat Poetry Corner

Amos 15 Sep 10 - 11:31 PM
Amos 15 Sep 10 - 10:59 PM
Amergin 01 Sep 10 - 05:12 PM
Amergin 01 Sep 10 - 09:56 AM
katlaughing 26 Aug 10 - 01:33 PM
Lonesome EJ 26 Aug 10 - 01:19 PM
Joe_F 13 Aug 10 - 06:32 PM
Lonesome EJ 13 Aug 10 - 02:20 PM
Amos 13 Aug 10 - 01:37 PM
Amos 11 Aug 10 - 01:18 PM
Amos 27 Jul 10 - 11:28 AM
Amos 05 Jul 10 - 12:47 PM
Amos 05 Jul 10 - 11:39 AM
Joe_F 27 Jun 10 - 07:44 PM
wysiwyg 27 Jun 10 - 03:35 PM
Georgiansilver 20 Jun 10 - 03:35 AM
Amos 19 Jun 10 - 04:52 PM
Lonesome EJ 19 Jun 10 - 04:28 PM
GUEST,CaptainFarrell 18 Jun 10 - 04:41 AM
Joe_F 17 Jun 10 - 06:00 PM
Georgiansilver 17 Jun 10 - 02:12 AM
Amos 16 Jun 10 - 07:14 PM
Amergin 22 May 10 - 05:42 AM
Amos 19 May 10 - 02:08 PM
Lonesome EJ 19 May 10 - 12:27 PM
Amergin 14 May 10 - 08:13 PM
Lonesome EJ 10 May 10 - 02:32 PM
Amos 09 May 10 - 03:09 PM
Amos 07 May 10 - 11:33 AM
Amergin 07 May 10 - 08:19 AM
frogprince 02 Apr 10 - 07:28 PM
Amergin 02 Apr 10 - 03:51 PM
VirginiaTam 02 Apr 10 - 03:50 PM
GUEST,Songbob 02 Apr 10 - 03:03 PM
Young Buchan 02 Apr 10 - 10:19 AM
Lonesome EJ 02 Apr 10 - 12:53 AM
Amos 01 Apr 10 - 11:29 PM
frogprince 01 Apr 10 - 08:04 PM
frogprince 01 Apr 10 - 08:03 PM
Lonesome EJ 01 Apr 10 - 06:38 PM
katlaughing 08 Mar 10 - 01:07 AM
Amos 07 Mar 10 - 02:58 AM
Lonesome EJ 06 Mar 10 - 11:02 PM
Amos 27 Feb 10 - 02:50 PM
Amergin 27 Feb 10 - 02:13 PM
WalkaboutsVerse 27 Feb 10 - 05:50 AM
mousethief 26 Feb 10 - 05:57 PM
WalkaboutsVerse 26 Feb 10 - 04:58 PM
Amos 26 Feb 10 - 11:16 AM
Amos 02 Dec 09 - 09:27 PM
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 15 Sep 10 - 11:31 PM

The Explainer passes judgement
On your case.
Over his left shoulder he
Is whispered to by
A host of notions, like angels.
Armed with these whispers
The Explainer concludes
That you will die.
Not for crimes that you have done
But for requiring
Explanations.
Although it is in your power
To erase the court,
Sentence, charges, and all,
You--in your holiness--refrain
And march with dignity
To an inexplicable end.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 15 Sep 10 - 10:59 PM

Singer



There is
no choice but
To sing where you
stand;
That is where you
sing from.
The words must be clear, but
Otherwise are unimportant
If only they are true enough.
The notes should be
well-chosen
for the place
from which
you are singing.
Beyond this, you
need only stand there,
where you sing from.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 01 Sep 10 - 05:12 PM

An Artist's Devoted Touch


Ribbons of curling burgundy hair
Dangles before her countenance
Obscuring the auburn freckles
Splashing her cheeks, buoyant kisses
Lavished the Northwestern sun.

Shrouded behind this portiere
Of ringlets stained by a sanguine sunset
Reclines a shuttered eye, where
Four glossy lashes protrude through
Specifying the location of her vision.

The aquamarine illuminating aurora
That is the allure of her spirit,
The effeminate ethereal charm
Ensared by an artist's devoted touch.

A tenuous fragment of a smile
Emerges from the tightly woven
Flesh coloured lips, as if perceiving
She'll be fastened behind a glass pane
Confined in a dusky wooden cage,
Her glamour beguiling generations tomorrow.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 01 Sep 10 - 09:56 AM

The Morrigan's Song

A soldier boy came home today. His camelbak lightly jouncing against his body as he walks into the arms of his young bride. She weeps into his chest, tears of relief and joy. He holds her, he kisses her, he laughs with her, but his outward gaeity never quite stretches into his eyes, always wary, always watching. They never losing the hard, damned stare, have squandered the essence that made him young. His youthfulness was burned away in gunpowder smoke, in blood, and the screams that wake him from his post traumatic dreams, his bedsheets fermenting with the night sweats. She senses the alteration in his spirit, that he is no longer the unseasoned man who knelt beside her before the altar on the day their union was blessed before God. He is no longer the boy who marched to the beat of the Morrigan's song.

A soldier boy came home today. After months wasting away in a military hospital, relearning how to walk, how to function , how to become a contributor of a capitalistic society. He feels the ghost pains of the arm and leg abandoned on the side of some desert highway, unnamed casualties of an IED explosion in the mutilated carcass of a military escort. His artificial titanium government issue prosthetics dully capture the arms of the summer sunlight, as he jerkily steps across the black pavement, the damp heat seemingly liquifying the distant tarmac with the caress of the Georgia sun. His rolling stuttering gait carries him home, away from the Morrigan's song.

A soldier boy came home today. His ebony casket draped in the red white and blue colours of his chosen nation's flag. His sobbing mother , near to collapsing, her quaking hands clutching a sodden tissue smeared with black mascara, dampened with tears. His stunned father stares at the pall with red fringed eyes. His wife sits on a folding chair, her face streaking with make up stained tears. Each drop a memory of their brief years together. She winces at the rifle volleys fired over his body, honouring the soul of a young man, though scared beyond anything he ever felt before, flung himself into the Morrigan's extended arms amidst the battle frenzy of rifle shots and hand grenades. The honour guard to heaven, in their smart dark blue dress uniforms, hand her the triangularly folded flag, which she grasps to her quaking bosom, the tear drops soiling the cotton fabric. She gazes up for a moment to spy a raven inspecting the proceedings, his beak open, cawing the farewell note of the Morrigan's song.

nt


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 26 Aug 10 - 01:33 PM

Oh, Leej! Beautiful and can I ever relate! Exactly the way I felt out East, at times. Some of your best lines in that one!! Rog will enjoy hearing it, tonight. Thanks for sharing.

luvyakat


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 26 Aug 10 - 01:19 PM

The Wyoming Transplant

She met him in college
the scion of a blueblood Boston clan
and loved him for his dry humor and moist skin
What he saw in her
was a kind of elemental force
a straight forward disingenuous directness
and the way her eyes lit up in laughter
After graduation they wed
and he took her East to a big house on the Squanacook
where the water lay placid and green
like a late-summer pond in a Rock Springs feedlot
and the hills, cool and green in Spring
hedged the sky to a steamy patch in Summer
After a year or so, even the relentless high plains wind
seemed like a happy remembrance
She climbed big hills in ridiculous hope
of seeing the distant purple and yellow
of the faraway Wind River Range
Once, a Ford pickup with golden cowboy plates
lay just ahead at a Boston traffic signal
and as she passed, laughing, called out
"take me home!" to the startled driver
whose brown rutted skin creased in a grin

After the divorce, she stayed on from habit
growing pale and weak in the wet winters and soggy summers
Until, at age 56, and leaving two grown children behind
She sold out, loaded what was left
and moved to a double-wide on a dry, rutted arroyo
in the wide country East of Rawlins
and in that raw and sandy soil
that defied her attempts at a rose garden
she herself took root at last
and flowered, thin and bright
as Indian Paintbrush


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Joe_F
Date: 13 Aug 10 - 06:32 PM

However you wriggle
When speaking of people,
There's little that's stable
Or even quite true.
Affection is fickle,
And fairness is feeble.
With both, if we're able,
We might make it thru.

(Was once going to be the end of a song.)


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 13 Aug 10 - 02:20 PM

Hey Amos. Back in Kentucky when I was a kid, I saw plenty of them truck-eating ferns.:>)


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 13 Aug 10 - 01:37 PM

I come back here from time to time
And read the long history of
The charming hearts and sunspot minds
Of poets churning for years.
What a climate they have built!
It rains and shines on the
same side of the street,
Even late at night. Sometimes
Noon is dark and rivers
Run up to the corner cops
To ask directions!

Chains of miracles tie
The frothing mad middle down
KEeping it
Hogtied by magic, prevented
From renewing the mediocre!
Keep it up, you golden elves,
Sequoias of the long tongue, nova-crafters!


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 11 Aug 10 - 01:18 PM

The Secrets of Women

The practiced angle of the neck, the chin
And always of the eyes--all are learned young.
Using the hair to call or to dispel, tossing it for some
And for others presenting a dark shield.
The use of each tooth, in combination, well-practiced,
And how the lips must form to spell temperatures.

Liquid joints design the edited message
Scrutinized in rehearsal for degrees forward, back,
The illustrating turns, peer-reviewed in overnights.
The arc of presentation, detailed and designed,
Combines with an array of chosen curves
Into the certainty the practiced eye assures.

The painted tips and ends, and every measured beat
OF lash and finger and toe contrives
To flavor moments hot, or cold, or sweet
Or bitter as only the artist may decide.
The cold kiss arched aloofly back,
The passioned offer pressed
The echo of the wrist and lips
And deadly answer of a hardened breast--

All make a puzzle erudite,
For scholarly minds to puzzle on
While in the pouring rhythm of the street
THe tide and song and measured dance move on.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 27 Jul 10 - 11:28 AM

"Where the liberal-humanist sensibility has always held the literary work to be a form of self-expression, a meticulous sculpting of the thoughts and feelings of an isolated individual who has mastered his or her poetic craft, a technologically savvy sensibility might see it completely differently: as a set of transmissions, filtered through subjects whom technology and the live word have ruptured, broken open, made receptive. I know which side I'm on: the more books I write, the more convinced I become that what we encounter in a novel is not selves, but networks; that what we hear in poems is (to use the language of communications technology) not signal but noise. The German poet Rilke had a word for it: Geräusch, the crackle of the universe, angels dancing in the static."


From this article in the Guardian about the novel "C".


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 05 Jul 10 - 12:47 PM

When I was in my
First cause,
I had no God, and
I was cause of myself.

Meister Eckhart


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 05 Jul 10 - 11:39 AM

Why is a fern in a wet morning
More beautiful
Than, say,
A rusty truck?

There is no comparison.
Truck kills fern,
Fern eats truck.
Each one loves the game.


A


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Joe_F
Date: 27 Jun 10 - 07:44 PM

You need two out of three -- altitude, airspeed, and a brain. -- Saying among pilots.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: wysiwyg
Date: 27 Jun 10 - 03:35 PM

Author of the below, Ellen Waterston, was Saturday's offering on The Writer's Almanac. I just cannot keep it to myself.

~S~

====

After ten hours of trying
the instructor undid
my fingers, peeled
them one by one
off the joystick.
"You don't need
to hold the plane
in the air," he advised.
"It's designed to fly.
A hint of aileron,
a touch of rudder,
is all that is required."

I looked at him
like I'd seen God.
Those props and struts
he mentioned, they too,
I realized, all contrived.
I grew dizzy
from the elevation
from looking so far
down at the surmise:
the airspeed of faith
underlies everything.
Lives are designed
to fly.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 20 Jun 10 - 03:35 AM

Compressed and frozen minds!... are they the ones that haven't the ability to take everything in without questioning or criticism?


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 19 Jun 10 - 04:52 PM

Lonesome, you demonstrate a powerful ability to permeate and see the viewpoint of the most compressed and frozen minds. I do hope each entry has an exit strategy!


A


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 19 Jun 10 - 04:28 PM

School Prayer

Now I sit me down to pray
to the guy who made the universe in 7 days...
Free me Lord from the lies that pass
for truth down in my science class
that dinosaurs lived near here
back more than a million years!
We know the earth's only 5,000 years old
in Genesis the Bible tells me so.
Don't try to tell me that my teacher
knows more science than my preacher.
Those dinosaur bones just aint that old
they're skeletons of angels, I've been told
And all this crap about evolution?
God didn't put that in the constitution.
And the anthropology we been readin?
Weren't no neanderthals in the Garden of Eden.
And the Jews and Buddhists and non believers
the wicked muslim turbanned deceivers
their parents are mostly ignorant fools
and could use some Jesus in the schools.

Amen


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: GUEST,CaptainFarrell
Date: 18 Jun 10 - 04:41 AM

There is a Pints and Poetry session at Saddleworth Folk Festival well worth checking out run by Mick Cartwright with help from Sid Calderbank


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Joe_F
Date: 17 Jun 10 - 06:00 PM

A madman to his old love made a phone call one year.
Said the madman to his old love, "How I wish you were here!
For the past is full of shame, and the future full of fright,
And if ever I had need of you, I have need of you tonight."

(1997)


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 17 Jun 10 - 02:12 AM

TO BE WITH YOU

Oh love that steals my dreams,
That wilt not let me rest by night or day.
That makes my sadness weep,
Now that she has gone thither, far away.
Oh love that steals my sense.
That takes away all reason from my brain.
That makes me think of nought,
Except that I should be with her again.
Oh love that steals my life,
That rests the knife so easy in my palm.
That opens up the wound,
To let the blood, like some relieving balm.
Oh love, 'tis that I die for you ,
The blood slips from my body oh so fast.
Here lain upon your lonely grave,
Is where I deign to breathe my very last.

Mike Hill. February 2009


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 16 Jun 10 - 07:14 PM

From Deda:

Put not your faith in princes
Whose only faith in you
Is that you'll play roughs and ditches
So the princes can play through.


DonŐt place your hope in bankers
Who only hope for wealth,
Who trade in guns and tankers,
And profit, pounds and pelf.


Waste not your love on lawyers
Whose hearts have turned to dust,
Those Ivy League marauders
Steal the pie and sue the crust.



May my faith not diminish.
Let my hope not erode.
Let love be the start and finish
And the entire road.


(c) Rebecca Jessup 2010


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 22 May 10 - 05:42 AM

Thank you both very much. I should say that Sveta is, unfortunately, a real person. she was interviewed in one of the local alternative papers. It just plain broke my heart, when I read her story.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 19 May 10 - 02:08 PM

Jaysus, Amergin, you really turned a corner with that one; I have never seen the like from you before. Well done!


A


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 19 May 10 - 12:27 PM

strong stuff, Amergin


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 14 May 10 - 08:13 PM

Sveta In The Promised Land

Hope glimmered brightly in her future, it was a
Desire for an education, a hope for love, a teacher's utopia
A hope for a family of her own, so she kissed farewell
To her parents, and left the damp somber Eastern land
She called home and followed the illegal pied piper's song
Across the green billowing sea to the Promised Land

In her uncle's nightmare, she found her dreams scattered
One by one as she was beaten, her blood vessels shattered
Beneath the smooth pale layers of discoloured skin
Bones fractured through repeated "trips down the stairs"
Her spirit assassinated as she suffered rape after rape
Trust died in her eyes every day in the Promised Land.

The title deed of her enslavement was transferred
At a poker table in an underground gambling den
Her new master insinuating the corruption, the toxins,
The junk she smoked, snorted, injected, to alleviate the agony,
To asphyxiate her sorrow as she turned tricks on the street
His financial gain, the capitalistic dream of the Promised Land

Her youthful beauty eroded with each hit, with each screw
As her body gradually deteriorated from the drugs
And the abuse, the misuse inflicted upon her sexual being
The hooded haunted look hollowing out her stare
Until she recognised her abandonment on the avenues
A piece of refuse scuttling down the gutter of the Promised Land

Fear mesmerises her, a snakelike coercion, imprisoning her
As she patrols the burgeoning Russian communities
Of Portland and Vancouver, too ashamed to return home
Sometimes at night in a dark alley she cradles a photo
Captured of her when hope still glimmered in her eyes
The illegal emigrant's reverie, the dream of the Promised Land

nt


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 10 May 10 - 02:32 PM

The Bull Rider

Randy Stoakes eases himself down
feels the momentary grit of cartilage on bone
singing like electricity in a line
that rings in his spine
as the dirt-colored bull lurches against the raw slats
Keet Lawson puts a boot heel on the brahma's shoulder
muttering "nasty ol bastard" as he tries to wedge him out
the echoed squawk of PA says "have a hand
for an ex-champeen, down in the runnin
needs a big ride on ol Hot n' Nasty"
and Stoakes wraps his fist tight and ruminates
on a beer-borne dream he had last night

back on the old man's hard luck ranch by Ten Sleep, he was
stalking a frozen creek for calves,in a lash-locking wind
when he come up on Delbert
his brother dead ten years
hunkered down in the lee of a big boulder
embers from the coffee fire scattering in the whirling air
across the outstretching white crust of snow
without speaking, he sat a busted spruce log, and took the cup from Delbert

The bull lurches sidewise again and the quick pain brings him back
in time to hear the bell, watch the gate snap open
feel the bull spring in the long leap, spinning the ass-end in a kick
Randy lets himself swing on the loop
but then the animal reverses with a sudden twist
flipping the cowboy into air, palm pinioned in the rope
he has time to hear the crack of his wrist
before he blacks out
staring at Delbert's crooked smile
tasting bitter camp coffee
and waiting for the Wyomin wind to slack
so they can head down the draw to warm beds


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 09 May 10 - 03:09 PM

Heraclitus, e.e. cummings,
Sisyphus, and the fire-giver,
Met for tea around the rock-face
Where Prometheus lost his liver.

He assured his guests quite calmly
It would grow back in again,
And Sisyphus remarked, all kindly,
"Lucky they don't eat your brain!"

This, they all agreed, was lucky!
"That would be an awful shock!
"For the sin of giving fire,
To lose your brains upon this rock!"

"Never fear," said mister cummings,
"Gods are feeble in their schemes.
"What they call a ghost is waking,
Not a hypnotized undream!"

Sisyphus then made excuses,
For he had a rock to roll.
As he left them, e.e. asked them,
"Is he happy in his soul?"

Heraclitus nodded wisely,
"This, I think, is hard to know."
"Even Gods can't reach the answer.
Still, we must imagine so."

Kam Ooeue
Songs of a French Colon
Cambodian Free Press, 1969


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 07 May 10 - 11:33 AM

The surfers learn early
To walk into the chaos
And find infinity on the other side.

Those who can learn to find the wall
Leap up to it and scale the
Crest just as it tumbles down.

Here is grace amid great forces
Tumbling to the floor and swift
TUrning to climb the wall-face again.

Taking the tunnel of green collapse
As a passage to the next leap
Never accepting that gravity could be terminal.

As they return, in the morning
To begin it all anew, like smoky larks on sky,
The surfers learn

Never to trust a man
Entering the water
Who cannot tolerate infinite space.

A


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 07 May 10 - 08:19 AM

The Junkie

She reaches into the steel rubbish bin, lined with a pale clear plastic bag. Her dirt stained fingers dig for the aluminium gold, desiring to bestow upon her another nickel toward her next hit. She lifts one soiled arm back to her side, raising it toward the sun, as she pushes it's unwashed sleeve back to her elbow, in a vain attempt to prevent further ruination onto the once white cotton fabric. Her action reveals in the late summer afternoon the bluish purple blotches in her skin, needle point reminders of her soul stealing damnation. She plunges her arm back into the receptacle, rummaging through its fly ridden depths, until she jerks her arm back out. The sunlight glitters on the dull metallic surface of the empty aluminium beer can held triumphantly in her right hand. Her dull eyes briefly glow as she spreads her prematurely wrinkled face, (her youth stolen, another year added by injection) unveiling blackened stubs of decaying teeth, resembling the dark maw of a cavern. She picks up the brown plastic bag fluttering lightly at her feet, and shoves the can within. She drops the bag, and grasps her way once more through the basket, fingers pushing their way pass empty grease stained brown paper fast food sacks, spit adorned napkins, and the alcohol perfumed dribbles of vomit, hoping to strike another five cents, only the search is in vain. Discouraged, she stands up, wiping her gaunt filthy hand upon her faded ragged blue jeans. Then she ambles to locate another bin in her desperate search to score another bag of death's solace.

nt


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: frogprince
Date: 02 Apr 10 - 07:28 PM

Amergin, forgive me, but that lovely sensual imagery took me way back to this:

Saturday Night in Everett, Washington

(from a slightly more innocent time, in July 1967,
when they were called gogo dancers, and they
wore complete bikinis)

Sharon's shaking that shapely frame again
Making goosebumps pop up on the skin
Making male minds meditate on sin
Quivering shivering stretching your mind thin
To the unintellectual sensual sexual din
Trembling twitching twisting you within
A graceful animal molded in skin
Sharon's go - go - go dancing again.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 02 Apr 10 - 03:51 PM

The Dancer's Sonnet

She dances, feet kicking from the dusky floor
Obsidian shoes hammering their adoring caress
With the drum beat upon the hardwood decor
And the lacy hems of her long ebony dress
Smoothly sweeping as if she were gliding
An angelic apparition floating upon each note
Her eyes closed in her shaking head as if hiding
From the dimmed lights shining on her silky throat
Her velvety quivering breasts threaten to burst
Their tender confines with intoxicating wit
Her passion blooms with a hedonistic thirst
Her soul lost in a musical trance as she submits
To the song, to the cadence of ecstacy's brink
She dances with the rapture of her aural drink

nt


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: VirginiaTam
Date: 02 Apr 10 - 03:50 PM

LEJ - A Poet Drowns Alone took my breath away. I am envious.


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Subject: Lyr Add: A SONG: I once met the poet (Bob Clayton)
From: GUEST,Songbob
Date: 02 Apr 10 - 03:03 PM

A Song

I once met the poet in the subway station
(I'd seen him before, so I knew him, you see).
He was standing in line for his daily blues ration,
The same as the other commuters like me.
Packed into the cars, we roared through the earth
Ignoring the people around where we sat,
When the poet fixed me with an eye full of mirth
And sang me the song of the hole in his hat.

I once met a busker while mailing a letter;
I tipped him a quarter and gave him a nod,
And allowed as how he could play so much better
Than most of the other street buskers, by God!
He played on his fife for all he was worth,
Depending on coins in the cup where he sat,
And, fixing me with an eye full of mirth,
Played me the song of the hole in his hat.

So, if you happen to see me someplace
(Now that you've met me, you'll know me, you see),
Don't be surprised by the look on my face,
For poets are known to be somewhat like me.
I may talk about football, or music, or news;
I well may debate the place of the cat,
When, suddenly struck by my musical muse,
I might sing you the song of the hole in my hat!



© 1991, Bob Clayton, Silver Spring, MD


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Young Buchan
Date: 02 Apr 10 - 10:19 AM

[When I visited Headington Church in the early 70s the churchyard was kept locked and could only conveniently be visited by going through the church when there was a service.]

At the Grave of William Kimber

Having paid admission
(An hour's Sung Eucharist)
I left the church's tollhouse
To find one special grave,
Whose newness sparkled in the noonday sun
Setting it apart from those
That moss and rain-stain long since dulled.

What came I here to see?
To left - seventeen stones, rough-hewn and crazy-paved.
To right - the headstone, and below -
Stone bellows, too carven to move,
But that show more clearly than the inscription
How Merrily he refathered English Morris.

What came I here to do?
To stand with camera at the grave-foot;
Record my momentary passing
At the transient memorial brightness
That stands above the ninety-year-old bones
Of never-fading music;
Repay with the little effort
Of ascending Headington Hill
(And an hour's Sung Eucharist)
The stretching of his fingers
To inspire my generation.

What came I here to hear?
Double Lead Through played on stone bellows,
Though almost drowned by squeals of music
From the toll-house organ;
Haste to the Wedding, very softly played,
Lest it offend against the matrimonial rites
Beloved of sixty Oxford Anglo-Catholics
Emerging to their cars and Sunday lunch.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 02 Apr 10 - 12:53 AM

FP, I'll get even with you! ;>)


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 01 Apr 10 - 11:29 PM

That is one of the best to grace this thread, and that's no joke. LEJ, you have The Voice. Treat it with joy.


A


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: frogprince
Date: 01 Apr 10 - 08:04 PM

April Fool!













(But it's a good one)


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: frogprince
Date: 01 Apr 10 - 08:03 PM

That is without a doubt the greatest poem I have ever read.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 01 Apr 10 - 06:38 PM

A Poet Drowns Alone


He had taken a deep breath and swam
Towards some cloudbank on the horizon
That held the illusion of dry land
And she had wept, and cursed him
And become exhausted with treading water.
Seeing me not far away, her hand reached out
To keep her up, or have me go down with her,
Each choice better than to struggle on alone
and exhausted in a bottomless ocean.

Yeats with his golden bird was right
There is no country here, no island.
At the setting of the sun they will lose sight of you
Nor remember you at the dawn.
Even Cummings' insensible scuttling claws
Lay a great distance and a slow metamorphosis away.
This endless blue vista pales poetry
And can be no captured beauty. The spoken words
Insensate gasps, the unspoken a chain of foam.

I no longer see where she was, no shadow
Fixes her place on a featureless surface
And even my memory is suspect
As I sink without a trace
Sans claws, sans Byzantium
Sans everything


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 08 Mar 10 - 01:07 AM

Stunning, as always, LeeJ. Thanks!


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 07 Mar 10 - 02:58 AM

Bravo, Lonesome; bravo.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 06 Mar 10 - 11:02 PM

Vimmer

in a dream you came to me
and I was only a little surprised to see you
and realized I must have imagined your suicide-
that ridiculous misconception corrected,
you only laughed and merged into the background

but the old vets knew how to wrap it up
in their fatigue caps and shining pins and medals
your written orders to report
to the Post Everlasting
sealed in an envelope and ignited in a silver bowl
your name stamped in bronze and placed on a plaque
an honor guard who fired rifles into the sky
making us all jump as the casings skittered over the asphalt
your brother took up his guitar and sang
a patriotic medley with an odd self-penned bridge
marking to the minute on monday morning
the moment you reported for heaven's duty


in all this, the only moment when I felt your presence
was when the old vets tangled the flagpole lines
and the flag doggedly resisted their efforts
a touch of black comedy that would have made you laugh
and listening to your brother's well meant song
I thought of how you would have liked to have
Ripple, or Uncle John's Band instead
and then the stories were told well, and cleaned up for the occasion
and your friend, who could barely croak words through his tears
somehow told the story about you the best

I kept silent, my stories all wrong for the occasion..
when we stumbled drunkenly to the lake's edge, your leg in a cast
and how you lost your footing and fell in
and then I thought of your old trick
of catching me offguard with your words
that sometimes made me think of you as a true son of a bitch
but you should never speak ill of the dead
and anyway I could never have explained to those wounded people
that it never me made love you less


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 27 Feb 10 - 02:50 PM

Like architecture foiled by gangs'
Slogans and initials spray painted, besmirching--
So poets disfigure their art with
An insistent spray of judgement.
What would the clean lines show in poems
Without them, skeletal in a sunrise?
Does beauty have an opinion?
Do not be silly.

A


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 27 Feb 10 - 02:13 PM

Why would you want to expose newbies to your amazing lack of talent?
    OK, but that's enough. This thread is for poetry, not poetry-bashing. David has agreed not to post any poetry here that he has posted at Mudcat before.
    -Joe Offer-


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 27 Feb 10 - 05:50 AM

Joe - due to the collapse of a website-host, the WAV threads are now full of many broken links, so it's probably better all round not to use them/close them down; hence, I thought I'd post here occasionally, and wait a while (for more newbies), before starting another WAV thread - until I just read your message, that is.


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: mousethief
Date: 26 Feb 10 - 05:57 PM

I haven't kissed you
In many weeks
Been too long since
You shaved your cheeks
Burma-Shave


O..O
=o=


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 26 Feb 10 - 04:58 PM

Amos: why not remind yourself of your opening post, before posting another piece?
    David, if a poem of yours has already been posted once at Mudcat, it may not be posted again. That's a standard policy that has been in effect for a long time. Ordinarily, we delete duplicate messages. I will make one exception for you - if you've posted one within a Walkaboutsverse thread, it may be posted in another Walkaboutsverse thread - but not in any other thread started by any other individual. And some of your poems have been posted five or more times - that's a clear abuse of posting privileges. -Joe Offer, Forum Moderator


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 26 Feb 10 - 11:16 AM

David:

For the love of poetry can you please, as requested in the past, confine your couplets to your own, more than generous threads?

Thanks,



A


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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 02 Dec 09 - 09:27 PM

Dream Time and Return



I have just returned from there--the Dream Time,
Where each instant is a grand knowing
But of late I seem to find
Getting there's harder, and returning rougher going,
Than it was before I worked for a living.
Once there the walls are gauze, and melt.
Here there are takers; there, each stranger is giving
And every face acknowledges it is yourself
Simply dancing otherwise.

You walk there among forms that are just knowings
The spirit I among the endless possibles, all just right,
All true. The thought is the act in staying and in going,
The walls newly known as they are met, the night
Newly seen dark, the day newly seen light.
Each step gliding, each embrace flowing
Each surprising vision a known sight.
One thought,   a sunlit season's sowing.

In the dream-web thoughts become real
Where souls are as open as your own mind
The days are scripts of the heart's feeling,
You are the author of the rattling time.
And even at the boundary, coming home to land
The blending confusion of transition remembers
Who defined the winds, and decided the sand
And when the flames should be, and when the embers.
What is it, then, convinces you
When the snoring stops and pillows grow hard,
That anything else must now be true
The playground now a prison-yard?

What single token in the shift of times
Betrays your own large knowing
That colors or pain are powers of one mind
Its single grace endowing
On the hard boards and cold kitchen walls of morning?


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