Literature Poems

[Cerebellion]

Girl In A Miniskirt Reading The Bible Outside My Window

Sunday, I am eating a
grapefruit, church is over at the Russian
Orthadox to the
west.

she is dark
of Eastern descent,
large brown eyes look up from the Bible
then down. a small red and black
Bible, and as she reads
her legs keep moving, moving,
she is doing a slow rythmic dance
reading the Bible. . .

long gold earrings;
2 gold bracelets on each arm,
and it's a mini-suit, I suppose,
the cloth hugs her body,
the lightest of tans is that cloth,
she twists this way and that,
long yellow legs warm in the sun. . .

there is no escaping her being
there is no desire to. . .

my radio is playing symphonic music
that she cannot hear
but her movements coincide exactly
to the rythms of the
symphony. . .

she is dark, she is dark
she is reading about God.
I am God.
Charles Bukowski

 

[Amy SF]

Cameron Diaz reads this poem, or at least part of it, in the movie In Her Shoes and I liked what I heard enough to go searching for it.


One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

-Elizabeth Bishop

By the way, I found it on this website:http://www.poemhunter.com/

Looks like a poetry-lover's delight, and a good place to search for a certain poem, or poet. I'm bookmarking this site.

 

[Amy SF]

Television

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

-Roald Dahl

I don't think Mr. Dahl liked the telly very much.
Unfortunately, this was written long before video games, PC's and the internet. *sigh*

 

[Amy SF]

I don't remember when or where I first read this, but I was floored by its simplicity. I love it.

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

William Carlos Williams

 

[Envy]

Softly widows weep abound
Kneeling to the wind
never making any sound
asking themselves
"how did we sinned?"

hope shines brightly
for those that need
to hang on tightly
and spread a seed
that almost rightly
is a humble weed
becoming mightily
a shiny creed

If I were to live twice
my friend
not being a mice
but instead
being none the wise
would be a gods send

I see
that you smile
I weep
for a while
I walk
for a mile
I fight
through the bile
even though
I realize that
it was just my guile


As I live
I see
things that
should be
as they are
but somehow
people assume
that they
never were

Inspiration touches you
like a flash in your winded
brain, but thinking rather
soundly, was it not just
something of which you
had to be reminded


too much stuff
thinking like a dope
this is my closing huff
of thought, I hope
but in the end
was it worth my while
how could I otherwise cope?

 

[Spang]

Something I wrote in my head on the way home from the grocery store:

Words

I've been making noises my whole life
Burping, pooping, sleeping baby
Now my noises have meaning
Definitions in a dictionary
Words on paper
Become noises
In the air

 

[ledboots]

Just like with you, Dad
I told Pep it was okay
to go, I'd be fine.

 

[Spang]

 

[PTree15]

This is something I wrote quite some time ago...I haven't written in a good long while. Anyway, here goes...

The tainted chalice sears their soiled hands
As they raise it up in shallow victory
For all to see and bow accordingly

The bullies ascend their pulpits
As they thump their chests in earnest
So haughty are the unmasked marauders

They feign disdain for the blistering pain
As they justify their deluded quest
To be the kings of the bountiful hill

Trampling resolve
Wringing out the red
Bite the rotten apple
Chew until you’ve bled

Itchy fingers trigger the gunslingers
As they shred their knowing victims
With a barrage of rhetoric worn thin

The misguided lemmings take their places
As they horde their buckets of black gold
Chanting reason is treason in unison

Trampling resolve
Wringing out the red
Feed the green disease
Drink until you’re dead

 

[Kittendumpling]

 

[Ann Chovie]

The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

MARY OLIVER

This poem is my mantra at present!

 

[ledboots]

That's really nice, Ann Chovie. I like this:

"It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones. "

 

[Amy SF]

I just found this poem I wrote 11 years ago. It's not one of my best, but since I write very few poems, I thought I'd share it anyway. It's about one of my cats; she was 5 years old at the time.

Sabrina
Tail long and tail luscious
wraps around me
as she glides right past.
Doesn’t look but shouts “Hello” -
slinks away when I respond –
too cool for me, too cool for all
as she turns to gaze with those cool blue eyes;
but call her name with a treat in hand,
scratch her back and rub her head,
pull a string from a mysterious spot,
and Sabrina becomes a little kitten again.
Funny, affectionate, playful and cute,
sweet and adorable – she’s in trouble again.

 

[KLS52]

I think it is very good...I like it!

 

[Amy SF]

I think it very good...I like it!

Thanks.

 

[Dedalus]

This is something I wrote quite some time ago...I haven't written in a good long while. Anyway, here goes...

The tainted chalice sears their soiled hands
As they raise it up in shallow victory
For all to see and bow accordingly

The bullies ascend their pulpits
As they thump their chests in earnest
So haughty are the unmasked marauders

They feign disdain for the blistering pain
As they justify their deluded quest
To be the kings of the bountiful hill

Trampling resolve
Wringing out the red
Bite the rotten apple
Chew until you’ve bled

Itchy fingers trigger the gunslingers
As they shred their knowing victims
With a barrage of rhetoric worn thin

The misguided lemmings take their places
As they horde their buckets of black gold
Chanting reason is treason in unison

Trampling resolve
Wringing out the red
Feed the green disease
Drink until you’re dead

Steven Wilson called - he wants you to give his notebook back. (I know you will take that exactly how I meant it.)

Very cool PTree!

 

[Dedalus]

Just like with you, Dad
I told Pep it was okay
to go, I'd be fine.

LB this really hits hard. Short and incredibly simple but what an deep impression it leaves. Nice.

 

[Dedalus]

There are pieces of me left
within this shell that can
still accept the bitter truths
There are cards that have been dealt
and accordingly they take
tricks that strip away my youth

Into a cycle
that kills as it stifles
lacerates the skin of hope I have
left

There are things that I regret
but I can’t change them now
there’s no sense in looking back
And if you see me someday
sleeping on a park bench
I would hope you have the heart
to say hello friend my

how I’ve missed you
Life has kissed you
bruised your lips
bloodied and ripped and bit you

All your lies have
been realized
Taste the bitter fruit and
swallow it down

And I see now how it stands
the city’s afire outside my door
I’m still betting on the muse
What have I got left to give
does it matter at this point
Lift your glass and light the fuse

Sing a chorus
to high heaven
Bended knees won’t bring redemption
Smell the smoke of bridges burning
walk to the water
there’s no turning
back now

Here we are
the insane,
artists and the doomed
Waiting to die and we’re all trapped
in three corners of the same room
And what of the world?
with its bitter twists of fate
Shoulder the burdens and still in this
carnival of life we celebrate

Spin the knife
with your conviction
Guilt is a savage addiction
Free yourself and start the landslide
Ride it down and look back with pride
my love.

 

[PTree15]

Steven Wilson called - he wants you to give his notebook back. (I know you will take that exactly how I meant it.)

Very cool PTree!

LOL! Thank you.

ETA:

There are pieces of me left
within this shell that can
still accept the bitter truths
There are cards that have been dealt
and accordingly they take
tricks that strip away my youth

Into a cycle
that kills as it stifles
lacerates the skin of hope I have
left

There are things that I regret
but I can’t change them now
there’s no sense in looking back
And if you see me someday
sleeping on a park bench
I would hope you have the heart
to say hello friend my

how I’ve missed you
Life has kissed you
bruised your lips
bloodied and ripped and bit you

All your lies have
been realized
Taste the bitter fruit and
swallow it down

And I see now how it stands
the city’s afire outside my door
I’m still betting on the muse
What have I got left to give
does it matter at this point
Lift your glass and light the fuse

Sing a chorus
to high heaven
Bended knees won’t bring redemption
Smell the smoke of bridges burning
walk to the water
there’s no turning
back now

Here we are
the insane,
artists and the doomed
Waiting to die and we’re all trapped
in three corners of the same room
And what of the world?
with its bitter twists of fate
Shoulder the burdens and still in this
carnival of life we celebrate

Spin the knife
with your conviction
Guilt is a savage addiction
Free yourself and start the landslide
Ride it down and look back with pride
my love.

This is awesome, I especially love the bolded part.

 

[Cerebellion]

The nose-end that twitches, the old imperfections---
Tolerable now as moles on the face
Put up with until chagrin gives place
To a wry complaisance---

Dug in first as God's spurs
To start the spirit out of the mud
It stabled in; long-used, became well-loved
Bedfellows of the spirit's debauch, fond masters

The Companionable Ills - Sylvia Plath