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Isolated Poetry Blurt

just read this for the first time - some phrasing will stay with me forever:

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

by Maya Angelou
 
and this:

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.


Pablo Neruda




if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me

how beautiful's that?

and this:

the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
 
Neruda was a man who understands women and expresses desire like no one else. He gets right to the point. I always come to those conclusions when I read his poems. Here's one of my favorites, to me, an incredibly erotic poem.

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair
Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
 
Angeline said:
Neruda was a man who understands women and expresses desire like no one else. He gets right to the point. I always come to those conclusions when I read his poems. Here's one of my favorites, to me, an incredibly erotic poem.

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair
Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
Click to expand...

all tension, stalking line to line. i love this one, thanks for posting it up!
 
I don't watch much tv but I am addicted to the first thirty minutes or so of Conan O'Brien's and David Letterman's shows. And last week I heard two things, one on each show that cracked me up to the point where they're still making me laugh.

1. Mike Tyson to Conan after being asked if he knows any Shakespeare responds

"To be or not to be mothafucka."​


2. Biff Henderson, Letterman's stage manager or some such, makes the following malaprop on Rosh Hashanah

Happy Newish Jew Year!​

:D
 
so amazed and delighted watching the development of other writers here

i wish i'd have known this place back when i first started to write stuff. it could have taught me so much that's taken me so long to discover before i found this wonderful place . . . its wonderful writers.

:kiss:
 
i love my new computer
i love it very much
it's fast and bright and silent
(or silent near-enough)

it has a bigger flat screen
and sounds to fill my ears
it has a built-in webcam
no tower, wires or other aggravating stuff.

*happy dance*

the silence is in reference
to fans and stuff inside
not notes of magic music
and voices . . .

:p
 
so who was henchman and why've they up and offed?
curious cat wishes to know the answers to this question and others

maybe
 
excerpt from 'Caught' by Henry Green

(The firemen saw each other's faces. They saw the water below a dirty yellow towards the fire; the wharves on that far side low and black, those on the bank they were leaving a pretty rose. . . . They sat very still, beneath the immensity. For, against it, warehouses, small towers, puny steeples seemed alive with sparks from the mile high pandemonium of flame reflected in the quaking sky. This fan, a roaring red gold, pulsed rose at the outside edge, the perimeter round which the heavens, set with stars before fading into utter blackness, were for a space a trembling green.)
 
we could use more poetic blurters...
some of you, surely, have pieces that you've stumbled upon we'd love to meet
 
ooh, i just weirded myself out soundwise - i opened a second window running the same excerpt but with about 10 seconds difference - so they ran at the same time, sound overlapping sound.

freaky cool *shivers*
 
Dream Scratcher

Twitch of paws, twitch of whiskers,
chirping, chatter in a imaginary chase
while lying on sofa for an all day nap.
She runs in dreams and it's the closest
that fat cat has ever moved her ass.
 
It's the 50th anniversary of JFK's assassination. This poem was read at Jackie's funeral and it really evokes him and the era of "Camelot" to me.

Memory of Cape Cod

"The wind in the ash-tree sounds like surf on the shore at Truro.
I will shut my eyes . . . hush, be still with your silly bleating, sheep on Shillingstone Hill . . .

They said: Come along! They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand and come along, it’s long after sunset!

The mosquitoes will be thick in the pine-woods along by Long Nook, the wind’s died down!

They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand, and your shells, too, and come along, we’ll find you another beach like the beach at Truro.

Let me listen to wind in the ash . . . it sounds like surf on the shore."


Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1923
 
Angeline said:
It's the 50th anniversary of JFK's assassination. This poem was read at Jackie's funeral and it really evokes him and the era of "Camelot" to me.

Memory of Cape Cod

"The wind in the ash-tree sounds like surf on the shore at Truro.
I will shut my eyes . . . hush, be still with your silly bleating, sheep on Shillingstone Hill . . .

They said: Come along! They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand and come along, it’s long after sunset!

The mosquitoes will be thick in the pine-woods along by Long Nook, the wind’s died down!

They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand, and your shells, too, and come along, we’ll find you another beach like the beach at Truro.

Let me listen to wind in the ash . . . it sounds like surf on the shore."


Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1923
Click to expand...

Beautiful (and sad).

Do you know any clean link to her poems? (I am not good at this).

Thank you, Angeline,
 
might lose my net for a few days (till the 28th latest if it goes out), but if it does go off i'll try checking on on my phone.

:kiss:
 
Angeline said:
Sure SJ. :)

Here is a link with a bio and some poems.

And at Bartleby they have her entire first volume of poems.

And while we are at it, have some jazz.

:rose:
Click to expand...

Thank you, Angeline. I'll check them promptly. (For a while I have dead sound on my PC, an old Apple, but perhaps I'll arrange it somehow).

Regards,
 
butters said:
well it's still on, so should remain so with any luck. and ... aw, thankyou :kiss:
Click to expand...

We may get snow and ice here tonight and tomorrow so I may disappear for a while if the power goes. At least we have a fireplace! :kiss:
 
Angeline said:
We may get snow and ice here tonight and tomorrow so I may disappear for a while if the power goes. At least we have a fireplace! :kiss:
Click to expand...
well let's hope you don't go invisible, but the idea of being cut off from the outside (with your love, supplies and the fireplace!) sounds really quite romantic. stay safe, stay snuggled :kiss:
 
butters said:
well let's hope you don't go invisible, but the idea of being cut off from the outside (with your love, supplies and the fireplace!) sounds really quite romantic. stay safe, stay snuggled :kiss:
Click to expand...

I am so writing that in to my next book; keep talking. :rose:
 
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