Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Jul 14, 2010 4:55:07 GMT -5
I wrote this yesterday morning after my outburst about the past made me reflect upon how my life is now. It made me feel better.
This is my most recent poem (the first for months in fact) and it's anything BUT finished yet.
Even so, I want to post it just as it is - hot and steaming like a joint of meat!
MY GYPSY BRIDE
I say with passion and with pride I won my beautiful gypsy bride; I who was so unloved before Have found a girl that I adore. I who once looked for love in vain Have found a girl to heal my pain. I who dreamed in loveless nights Have her warm flesh to hold me tight.
Sbe isn't everyone's cup of tea And at times I gaze disbelievingly At some of theings she does and says, But in my heart she's a special place.
I had no love in my parents' home: They only offered me a stone, And I lived my childhood alone With only the monotonous drone Of their mantra 'Money! Money is king!' But I never believed such a heartless thing. I always knew that love was the goal, The only way to make me whole.
And so I gazed in young girls' eyes And found there nothing more than lies; They knew my parents were full of boodle And because of that sometimes we'd canoodle.
Of course in time I fell in love But then, when push came down to shove, She left me for another man. Another failed, stupid plan!
And then in time I loved again: Ah, but it broke my heart with pain! I fell in love with a heartless bitch Who only fucked me because I was rich.
And when a better offer came She quickly dowsed the burning flame Of love that dwelt within my heart. And all of it not worth a fart.
With my best friend she ran away, Since he had money that could pay A lifestyle richer than my folk, And once again my own heart broke.
I nursed dark dreams within my heart, Longed only to see both lie sunk in death Beneath my feet, and through my art To torture both to their last breath.
Long years of loneliness elapsed And then one day a precious pearl Appeared; shaken, could it be perhaps That so late on I'd love a girl?
I loved her then; I love her still. I loved her and she loved me back. Two lonely hearts each found love fill Our being, till we drowned in sack.
I wedded my dear gypsy bride, And to this day she's by my side; Our love is quite beyond control: We love with body, heart, mind, soul.
For all the sadness and the pain True love lives in us both again;; We'll not be sundered, save by death: We draw in air with a single breath.
She's given me a girl and boy And on them both I shower the love My parents never gave; our joy Is final: nothing can remove The countless blessings that she brings. Though she loves baubles, it's not rings, Perfume or jewels, that keep us wedded: In love's sure earth we're firmly bedded.
|
|
|
Post by Wonder Woman on Jul 15, 2010 9:49:42 GMT -5
That's all at once heartfelt, heartbreaking and so beautiful, Mike...
Lin is a lucky gypsy girl to be with someone so utterly romantic!
|
|
|
Post by liberaljoe on Jul 15, 2010 11:31:47 GMT -5
That's all at once heartfelt, heartbreaking and so beautiful, Mike... Lin is a lucky gypsy girl to be with someone so utterly romantic! This 'poetry' is simply quite crude doggerel I am afraid, no matter how heartfelt or romantic. Mike would be better sticking to prose - he is quite adept at that
|
|
|
Post by Wonder Woman on Jul 15, 2010 14:08:03 GMT -5
<shrug> To each his own. I quite like it, your opinion notwithstanding.
|
|
|
Post by liberaljoe on Jul 15, 2010 15:16:30 GMT -5
That's OK; each to his/her own
|
|
Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Jul 16, 2010 5:44:08 GMT -5
Perhaps you would care to favour us with some examples of your own poetry, LJ.
|
|
Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Jul 16, 2010 5:45:47 GMT -5
Incidentally, if you had read some other examples of my work on here I'm sure that even you would not consider me a writer of crude doggerel (although at times I freely admit that I HAVE written that - generally intentionally!)
|
|
|
Post by liberaljoe on Jul 16, 2010 5:58:12 GMT -5
Perhaps you would care to favour us with some examples of your own poetry, LJ. I do not write poetry I know my limitations
|
|
|
Post by beth on Jul 16, 2010 12:44:32 GMT -5
OK guys. Let's pack it in on this one. If you don't like to be modified .. I sympathize because i hate to do it. But, don't want to have to close the thread, so lets save the firecrackers for another time. Thank you sweetly.
|
|
|
Post by biglin on Aug 3, 2010 9:53:20 GMT -5
This is my parody of Ginsberg's 'Howl':
Howls of Self-pity and self-congratulation I saw the best minds of my generation choked on their vomited ego drunk on the wine of their own self-importance stepping over bums in the street with fastidious step as they pursued their own Zen-centred quest for personal enlightenment and watching in increasing anger and disgust from the boulevard cafes where they bemoan the fate of the world while doing nothing I feel like lobbing a Molotov cocktail their way because if even the best are just busily gazing up their own rear ends what the hell is the use of even trying? Like Yeats said the best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity and so it is with all these charmless princes blessed with a talent ordinary folk would die for yet sitting back on the side and just spectating and occasionally making patronising comments about anyone who get down and dirty and gets involved
The cowboy junkies screaming for a fix whose heroes are their tragic heroin and who sit in the safe zone drinking their red wine at Italian restaurants thinking the red tablecloth is somehow something radical
and all the while the world around keeps turning oblivious of their very existence and all the while the world around keeps burning oblivious of their very persistence in the non-identity of doing nothing and feeling good about the choice they made to sit on their posteriors and pontificate without the guts to get out there and fight or at least only from the safest possible position like being stuck right at the back of a crowd where the guys in the front are getting busted and whacked
Hell yes it's a great time to celebrate the ego and what makes it so disgusting is that these clowns had talent had what it takes to at least try and make a difference beneath the uncaring sky
to hell with all the poets, writers, artists musicians, actors, all the slimy crew just hangers on at the great bazaar of life
if you just define yourself by your work you're a non-identity
if your work is part of the wider tapestry of human endeavour and you really try to make a difference to this so-called civilisation this old bitch gone in the teeth as Ezra Pound said then and only then do you have the right to sit down on your fat backside and write
what have you done today to try to make the world a better place to try to bring joy instead of sorrow comfort instead of pain love instead of hate what have you done
oh, I wrote a poem about oppression and poverty that's nice did you do anything about it well I gave a couple of dollars last week to a charity collector I saw in the street
has your heart been moved by human suffering have you bled tears of real blood out of your eyes and heart or are you just another vicious poseur a hanger-on who says all the right things but none of it makes a difference to your life yeah, that's what I thought
I saw the best minds of my generation stoned on skunk off of their face on rock and the sadness is they really were the best minds too caught up in their worthless petty egos to look outside and live life for a second
they think like Villiers de Lisle who wrote in 'Axel' the terrifying words: 'as for living, our servants can do that for us.'
|
|
|
Post by biglin on Dec 25, 2010 10:39:18 GMT -5
A Sonnet against Hard-heartedness
O let me not be hardened in my heart As some have been fine-whittled by the wheel Of life, but rather choose the nobler part, And know none truly lives who does not feel.
Who has no breath of pity, much less love, Can never hope to speak of life at all; Whose day is only endless push and shove Can but be poisoned by a bitter gall.
Where there's no love, compassion, there's no joy, No laughter and no light of any kind To form the man out of the thoughtless boy, And shine the light of wisdom in his mind.
Though hard-faced men tell us that life is so True hearts know better; ye reap as ye sow.
|
|
|
Post by biglin on Dec 25, 2010 10:41:12 GMT -5
When Winter Comes
When the snow lays its carpet on the ground, And the earth's hair itself is dressed in white, And coldness in the air grips our throats tight, So that we make no slightest sound, And then I say: 'The earth grows ancient now, And all her hair has turned to snowy white, And all the green she wore is withered quite, So that no farmer pulls his steady plough, Nor may the children play among the fields, Or the young lovers walk across the meadows Clasping their hands. Earth is a world of shadows, And to its cold and darkness, all must yield.
Even the sigh high up smiles down no more, Now that the earth's no longer dressed in green; With veiled eyes he flees the winter scene, Like seas receding from a distant shore.
When the spring comes again, earth will forget The snowy garments that she used to wear, And the white colour of her covered hair, And she, without regret, Will open up the eyes of aconites And snowdrops, so that spring is truly seen, And soon the earth once more will dress in green And not her winter shroud of white.
New flowers shall grow again and push through earth In radiant colour and in briny green; Our hearts will gladden at that vernal scene, Watching the new life coming into birth.
|
|
|
Post by biglin on Dec 25, 2010 10:42:07 GMT -5
Song to the Nightingale (From the Welsh of Alun)
When the lovely earth is hidden by night Beneath its dark wing, The forest choir falls silent, but you Still sweetly sing, And, as if a thorn lay against your heart, Throbbing gently beneath your breast, You, until the kind day breaks, Still sing, and leave the rest.
Just like you is this lovely girl, A partner more than rubies dear, At sunset, though throughout the land A thousand clouds appear, When the comforters of day are quiet Her faithfulness is still complete; In all night’s sounds of pain and grief No voice could ever sound so sweet.
Though anguish nearly numbs her heart She will not complain, Nor fret her loved ones with her grief: Her smile will mask her pain; Nor will her song end: through the night, Till the bright of day shall dawn Her song will shine like a golden eye Through the clear eyelids of the morn
|
|
|
Post by biglin on Dec 25, 2010 10:43:39 GMT -5
Adaggio
I fix my gaze Upon the stars, Weary of life's maze, A cheap bazaar.
A cheap bazaar, Weary of life's maze, Upon the stars I fix my gaze.
|
|
|
Post by biglin on Dec 25, 2010 10:44:28 GMT -5
The Waggoner
He trundles down the highway, on the road Driving long-distance lorry-loads; His hand upon the wheel, he keeps his lane, Drives in all weathers, heat and snow and rain. He carries cargo, fetches freight from place To place, but rarely sees a human face. His friends? He has few, and those mostly blurs; In motorway cafes he takes his English meals With others of his kind, lone waggoners. He holds the road, he owns, he is, four wheels, That grip the tarmac tighter till at last The load’s delivered, and his journey past.
|
|