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Post by Dex on Oct 3, 2015 16:18:25 GMT -5
Thanks Lin. Good one.
I guess poems are the best way to say the things that we have trouble saying in other ways.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Oct 4, 2015 16:55:25 GMT -5
Ecstatic dancing:
1) a slave to the rhythmical clashing of guitars, violins, castanets, I dance by the dark waters, the rain above me plashing as I make my pirouettes to the living altar of nature's bower in spite of the shower 2) in the act of dance I can forget the sorrows that I have, the endless longing for everything about me to be different, and put aside every regret, dismiss the endless wronging of the world about me as, more than content, I blaze in joy as the dance fills my being, driving away for that timeless moment the heaviness of being 3) now I dance on roller-skates of song, fly with the swallow's wings in sheer delight, ecstatic in this starry-headed world in which, while still possessed, I am borne along through the glittering day and umber night as I, and all around me, twirled in the liberation of flesh and heart and mind, within a universe where all are kind 4) then, when the music ends, and the dancers' legs no longer move, sadness returns to fill our aching heart, and once again, even among our friends, once more we tread the old familiar groove, knowing the time has come for us to part, return to the cramped and narrow equidistance that lets us stay just short of non-existence
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Oct 4, 2015 17:01:41 GMT -5
Thanks Lin. Good one. I guess poems are the best way to say the things that we have trouble saying in other ways. Thanks, Dex. I just felt moved to write this poem after the tragic events.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Oct 8, 2015 10:45:55 GMT -5
The gypsy girl's lament for life in the town:
Here, in the bustling city, I fret and cry all day; my duty, more's the pity, won't let me come away
I long for the open fields; my heart is aching to hear tbe music nature yields to those who tune their ear
I long to breathe the woodland air and smell the scent of leaves and flowers, the wind swirling through my long hair, the rain serving as my shower
I'd make my bed in the heather, the birds my wake-up call, snug in freedom whatever the weather, joyous among it all
the sun would stream on my dark face with its rays of golden light; we'd need no house in this happy place where our hearts are always bright
free from our chains, so wild and free we'd roam through lands in unabashed joy, revel in nature's jamboree, a gypsy girl with her darling boy
my heart is aching: in my blood I feel the road call out to me, long to be trudging through the mud with the wind and rain my eau-de-vie
I have grown weary of the towns, long for the journey to who knows where, across the hills, across the downs, to a place where freedom's lamp still glares
here, in the bustling city, I fret and cry all day; my duty, more's the pity, won't let me move away
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Post by Scottish Lassie on Oct 8, 2015 13:22:52 GMT -5
The gypsy girl's lament for life in the town: Here, in the bustling city, I fret and cry all day; my duty, more's the pity, won't let me come away I long for the open fields; my heart is aching to hear tbe music nature yields to those who tune their ear I long to breathe the woodland air and smell the scent of leaves and flowers, the wind swirling through my long hair, the rain serving as my shower I'd make my bed in the heather, the birds my wake-up call, snug in freedom whatever the weather, joyous among it all the sun would stream on my dark face with its rays of golden light; we'd need no house in this happy place where our hearts are always bright free from our chains, so wild and free we'd roam through lands in unabashed joy, revel in nature's jamboree, a gypsy girl with her darling boy my heart is aching: in my blood I feel the road call out to me, long to be trudging through the mud with the wind and rain my eau-de-vie I have grown weary of the towns, long for the journey to who knows where, across the hills, across the downs, to a place where freedom's lamp still glares here, in the bustling city, I fret and cry all day; my duty, more's the pity, won't let me move away Very creative Lady Linda, I love it!!! Hope you achieve your heart's desire some day.
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Post by Scottish Lassie on Oct 8, 2015 13:51:08 GMT -5
Hi Lady Linda, the poems are all very expressive, and from the heart. Loved them all!!!
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Oct 8, 2015 15:49:26 GMT -5
Thanks, Scottish Lassie.
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Post by Scottish Lassie on Oct 20, 2015 21:12:31 GMT -5
All thought provoking, for sure!!! Excellent work.
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Post by ladylinda on Oct 23, 2015 14:58:52 GMT -5
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Post by ladylinda on Oct 23, 2015 15:00:04 GMT -5
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Post by beth on Oct 23, 2015 15:59:32 GMT -5
Thanks, Lin. I'll go have a look sometime over the weekend. Proud to have you here, Poetry Lady.
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 2, 2015 17:44:32 GMT -5
This is my most recent poem. I wrote it for a contest on a poetry forum I belong to and it's a tribute to a brilliant African-American poet on there.
Dialogue between masters and slaves:
THE MASTER SPEAKS We, the master race, rule you by day and night; our feet rest on your face because our skin is white and we, through divine grace know what is right: all is ordained, in place; black and brown can never bear our light
so it is you lesser breeds need us for your own protection; wisdom sprouts from us like seeds: we alone give you direction, clearing away the weeds in firm rejection of every heart that bleeds with pity when they see your firm subjection
so it is with every lash we burn truth into your body and soul, you non-whites are only trash, born for us to take control of you: want you to make us cash, units to help us reach our goal of white supremacy: balderdash to think that you can ever change your role
we are the masters, you our slaves: from birth unitl you're lost in graves; that's how your lives will always be, no one will ever set you free
THE SLAVES SPEAK
each brick we build is watered with the tears that flow from our tired eyes
in every barren field it is our sweat and blood that sow the crops you prize
under a blazing sun we ache and toil, whipped when we drop
because of our non-white skin, we, like black coal, are only a cash crop
without our hands how could your earth grow fertile?
though we obey your commands and toil without mirth you are only mortal
some day we'll find the blinkers fall away, black, brown and white conjoined in a free, sunny day
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Post by Jessiealan on Nov 3, 2015 22:46:29 GMT -5
Very nice, Lin. Thank you for sharing it with us.
You have a great deal of talent.
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 5, 2015 17:56:55 GMT -5
Thanks for your kind words, Jessie. I'll post two more.
Ghosts
are everywhere; should we celebrate them, comfort or pardon them, or simply bid them vanish?
you, looking gloomily at me through a dense shield of fog, still bear the marks of the lash upon your body; within your wraith-like ears the clink of chains and the clang of prison doors still resonates
or you, once utterly beautiful, ruined by the ones who ravaged you, took you away from your family and home to ravish you and bring you shame
you, local councillor, who drove away a family from the forest; they ate nuts and berries, cooked hotchi-witchi but to you they were inherently marime
as always, the perception of filth is in the mind of the Puritan; fan can mean enthusiast or fanatic, as well as being another name for mish, and mindj is what you think of all our women, only a vessel for your karbaroL well, adja poo kar to you!
the ghosts of those selling our trinkets from door to door, or dukkering the vast to earn some scran, float past me; where are you now? fled into forgotten vacancy, the earth on which you tread nourished only by the tears you shed
I taste the harsh breath of you as, in Satanic covens, they bundled you, alive, into their stinking ovens, music that flowed from your fingers, silenced utterly, yet still the melody lingers, in the frosted air around the camps of death
our ghosts can never drag home, for our only home is the earth itself on which we try to freely roam but from which, forever banished, even our ghosts, moarte, mulos, wander forever in wonder, ponder the reason for the thunder of prejudice that always assails us: O Divvel, do not fail us!
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 5, 2015 17:59:53 GMT -5
YouTube
I am simply a vessel into which others pour their music, then, stored in my lifeless womb, with a single click on a link tunes flow out of me
it is as if I were Coppelia and you Doctor Coppelius, somehow fashioning out of me a simulacrum of life
my whole raison d'etre is to serve your pleasure, a slave, without will, toiling at your behest to bring sound into a silent world
nothing of me is found, only the act of bringing me to life creates a temporary evaporation of digitized music escaping from its prison into a world where people, for a brief moment at least, listen to my voice
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