Older, missed or neglected poems

[fridayam]

I know twelveone has talked about this before--digging into the past and finding poems that have been missed or overlooked or just plain forgotten--and I think it is a worthy aim so I am kicking it off with a poem by one of my favourite writers on Lit. sandyb is a private soul and doesn't communicate much, which is why she is perhaps overlooked. I adore her poems, and perhaps this will give a flavour of why. I would ask you all to dig into her list--there are gems aplenty there.

the shell road
bysandyb©

i think of her like a song by townes –
driving through life with the pedal down.
i’d married before we met - her gaze
made my doubts of him turn crystalline.
a shell road led by a mobile home,
tinged with rust – i saw a girl working
on a car, parts strewn, yard overgrown -
dirty face, faded shirt, lank blond hair
and eyes that spoke a wild tenderness.
we smoked cigarettes and drank a beer.
i knew i had just met my other.
i should have been her lover.

once my husband left, we used up men,
chasing our pleasures with cheap bourbon.
hermanas, brujas, putas locas –
angels started hissing. one stormy
dawn, making coffee in torn panties,
her bare breasts outlined by the window,
she met my stare with blue eyes flashing -
a wounded priestess, her gods dying -
finding neither respite nor belief,
just the disintegrating wind and
dark waters rising as her cover.
i should have been her lover.

 

[Angeline]

What a great idea for a thread, friday! I'll post a few I remember. Unfortunately a lot of the older Lit poets have taken down their submissions, but some of the best remain. This poem is from 2003 by a very talented writer, RisiaSkye. Her poetry is narrative and prosey but I love the way she writes.

Home Schooling for the Dead
byRisiaSkye©

A dim, hazy memory of crash carts,
shouted secret codes and an impossible labyrinth
filled with shocking doctors and
magical minefields of intricate minutia.
Sleeping pills, submerged will,
morbid fascination and ambivalent consolation.
Slowly, these things take shape,
coalesce,
form the walls of the world.

They are the time-markers
separating seasons,
the condensed distillation
of her youth.

Childhood is also watching for suspiciously
long sleeved friends in summer seasons,
droopy-eyed stares,
long slurring speeches
and the soft singing of Janis Joplin
albums with grooves nearly worn away by
the heavy rotation.

The worst of it is waiting
for these things,
not watching
in fear or anger or fury or hunger.
It is an anticipation that cuts
its knife blade clear through her,
a gilded edge forged in amalgam
of misbegotten guilt;
a child's greedy grief is
never pure.
She blames herself for the outcome of
such cycles because the
signs are a sickness, and the
sickness is long slow death.

Even as a child she knows that
feels that she should dread these
signals of the times
to come instead of
longing for them
in secretive silence.

But the signs are also relief.

When the signs of Momma's sickness come,
she doesn't know
what to do.
Though she knows already
these episodes end badly,
for the moment there are no shouted
words of disapproval, no hints
of any failure or faults;
there are no harsh punishments
for misdeeds unknown and unseen,
missteps untaken
mistakes reawakened.
There is only the sickness,
and this is a great relief.

Dad's sickness comes more often
but always looks the same
as the time it came before.
Still, he makes less sense
to her, and it will be years
before she begins
to understand why this is so.
She learns to avoid him when
his words mush together,
forgoing the pleasant hum of his
voice addressing
no one in particular
and everyone in easy earshot.
When his voice is soft,
his hands are hard; he is utterly
predictable is his unpredictability.

But the next morning, he is sweet and warm,
snuggled under blankets and squinting
against the daylight. She can curl
up with him and
sleep into the sunset, safe
and satisfied in the knowledge that no one
else dares disturb him
on those endless days-after.
In silence, the room's
a slumbering womb which marks her as
special; sleepy snuggles and stray
murmurs of affection snare her in
a spiderweb of creeping
malevolent secrecy.

Somewhere in the spaces between
the mother and the father,
she learns early that sometimes
the sickness is stealthy death
but it is also salvation.

 

[Angeline]

annaswirls is another gifted poet who hasn't posted here in a long time. Her poetry is a delight to read.

grande truth in a venti cup
by annaswirls©

Stop there and fill it up fill it up fill it up with two percent
granulated sweetness breathe
breathe easy through your mouth
three four this cannot be too bad

Calm, two three four these women seem kind,
accepting, even through the french vanilla inquisition
so do you believe he was born of a virgin?
you are not sure? born at all?
just a man?

Coffee cool enough for gulping through
do you believe he lived? was crucified? dead? buried?
I did not realize it at the time
but they were running through the Apostle's creed line by line
check
check
check

The night I met him
there was no shame.
I did not turn when he touched my face
unfolded my privacy under harsh incandescence
god look at you so beautiful so beautiful!
white pillows propped he tucked one here
one there set me up
not unlike Mom did with Pop-pop those last days
as he shrunk into the corner leather
like the photographer who propped our babies
giving the false impression they could hold up their own heads
sit unassisted.

The women did not ask me about Pontius Pilot
or bother to roll away the stone
but made sure to ask
So, do you believe in hell?

Does it show? Did I remember
to adjust all pillows
for proper support?

Yes girls, I know I am awful,
no, no I do not love him.
He bores me with long lists of cities
we will never visit together
thank god I do not long for him when we are apart
but he tells me lower my chest
and I lower my chest,
move so easy to any request
You are the only man
the only man
this is the little truth
the little truth in a big big cup.

 

[Angeline]

Here's an older poem from Lauren Hynde, one of the forum moderators.

The Stylization of Self
by Lauren Hynde©

Breathe

the burnished steel of our bed,
as metallic glow pours from the picture-box
and rearranges us in formalized poses,
reflecting graphs of chromium-coated skin
backlit in diagrams of thermonuclear weapons
that flash in blurred ellipses
over sections of our bodies,

The curve of an exposed breast
The soft cushion of a buttock
The arch of a damp perineum

reminders of fresh sensual quarries:

You clasping my breasts to a single globe
the moisture on your lips as you descend
and engulf my stiff nipples,
distracting me from these out-of-character acts.
Your body framed within the contours of my own,
flashing hundreds of perspectives
of flickering mouths, necklines, navels, tongues.

You encage yourself in the fork of my thighs,
break codes hidden in my musculature.
My hands memorize the geometry of your penis
and enclose its radius within my vulva,
drowning our sexuality in the light
of soft-drink commercials multiplied across
the glistening surface of my rising and falling buttocks.

'The Cold War is over'
announces the man in television

(but we know better)

Our semi-metallic body parts interact in new junctions.
You slap me, try to force your flaccid penis into my vagina,
middle finger looking for my anus along the parabola of my cleft,
your empty face clicks on and off in masks of anger and distress.
Your semen runs down my left thigh onto the pool
of sweat and synthesized intimacy soaking the silk sheets below.
Your head swings in my direction, as if remembering,
but you are silent:
it doesn't really matter for people like you.

For people like us

Our space is minimalist,
anonymous and functionalist to the core,
a colourless
frozen reminder of texture,
and torn pages of countless novels
line the wall over our bed,
a chill sterility of words,
a chill sterility of us.

 

[Angeline]

An older poem from the very talented darkmaas.

Dark Feel in Wormwood
by darkmaas©

Pale green
Cloys sweet to mask
Wormwood bitter
Paris opalescent

***

I came upon old Oscar
Fat and droll and fey
In studied languor, posing
By dark eyed Salomé.

That dancing levantine
With her baptist on a tray
She brushed his lips, “Iokanaan,
Ta bouche, je l’ai baissé.”

Green fog enshrouded Oscar
Rose and sailed away
Leaving just the three of us
With little left to say.

We left John the baptist lolling
Bleeding on his silver tray
And once he was not looking
We caught the night train to Calais.

***

Left hand city
Bittersweet mask
Wormwood soul
Why must you ask?

 

[fridayam]

Thankyou Angeline for such a prompt response, and such intruiging poems. I hope others will add to this, and explain why they liked the poems. But more particularly, I would like people to go and comment on the poem on the site (if it is still there) and vote for it. Who knows, it might encourage someone who has stopped writing to write again.

 

[Angeline]

Thankyou Angeline for such a prompt response, and such intruiging poems. I hope others will add to this, and explain why they liked the poems. But more particularly, I would like people to go and comment on the poem on the site (if it is still there) and vote for it. Who knows, it might encourage someone who has stopped writing to write again.

You're welcome. I could go on and on as there are many wonderful poems here I remember. I'd encourage folks to check out other poems by the poets whose works I've posted. They will not be disappointed! And there's a "best of" thread here somewhere that I'll try to find and bump. But I won't monopolize your thread and will stop here. I know other poets still around, who've been around for years like me, know great poems they could recommend.

 

[fridayam]

You're welcome. I could go on and on as there are many wonderful poems here I remember. I'd encourage folks to check out other poems by the poets whose works I've posted. They will not be disappointed! And there's a "best of" thread here somewhere that I'll try to find and bump. But I won't monopolize your thread and will stop here. I know other poets still around, who've been around for years like me, know great poems they could recommend.

Thank you and I hope the other poets will--and not just from years gone by but perhaps that poem they read last month that on reflection deserves better circulation.

 

[twelveoone]

Thankyou Angeline for such a prompt response, and such intruiging poems. I hope others will add to this, and explain why they liked the poems. But more particularly, I would like people to go and comment on the poem on the site (if it is still there) and vote for it. Who knows, it might encourage someone who has stopped writing to write again.

I hate to sound like Senna Jawa - post the link

 

[jthserra]

4 degrees

instant karma
by4degrees©

speaking
writing in code
pressing my tongue
to the ridged roof
of my mouth as i strain
waiting for that
one perfect word to
roll on out
i don't pick up roget
when i'm here
so its never pretty
and oh so limited
but we both know what
it means when
i say

passion me baby

a just muse who's
starting little fires
all over...little pyro
lovin' the heat
heating me up and
putting me out with
gasoline

my passion burns like
a mountain of tires
it just goes on
for weeks
months even
making clouds of black smoke
that i choke
myself on.

but he likes a slow burn
a constant glow that grows
with every shot of O
the black smoke
and black blood
i'll suck right up without
a worry
i had this disease
before you were born, baby
you just might be my
anti-venom
my comfort niche
not some notch
on my 17.5 viewable

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Can anyone find the poem by Anna about her son playing in the yard as she talked to a neighbour? it's one worth reading again and again

 

[Angeline]

Can anyone find the poem by Anna about her son playing in the yard as she talked to a neighbour? it's one worth reading again and again

I'm not sure but it might be Five Wagons of Hickory Nuts. I almost chose it to post yesterday.

 

[Charlotte_Webb]

Can anyone find the poem by Anna about her son playing in the yard as she talked to a neighbour? it's one worth reading again and again

She sounded prettier on the phone

 

[Liar]

Here's one I keep coming back to. A playful, carefree impro of sounds, rhythm, form and theme that I absolutely love.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

She sounded prettier on the phone

Wow! Left a very belated comment. Thanks for finding it.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

I'm not sure but it might be Five Wagons of Hickory Nuts. I almost chose it to post yesterday.

This is a great one too

She sounded prettier on the phone

Yes this is the one, out of every poem I have read on here it stays with me, it gripped me even before she tidied it up for submitting and I loved it (and Anna) then

 

[butters]

I'm not sure but it might be Five Wagons of Hickory Nuts. I almost chose it to post yesterday.

this poem is simply ... real. i love it. thankyou for posting this link, angie, or i might have never ever read it.

 

[twelveoone]

instant karma
by4degrees©

special request
you wrote a pantoum after the tsunami, it affected me, in more ways than one. Can you post?
and link?

 

[greenmountaineer]

She sounded prettier on the phone

One of my favorites.

Also:

Ninja on Soft Paws by Pandora Glitters

Yellow Pining by Wicked Eve

and when I tire of taking myself too seriously:

Mosquito Wins Miss America by Pushkine

 

[jthserra]

special request
you wrote a pantoum after the tsunami, it affected me, in more ways than one. Can you post?
and link?

I remember this one, I wrote it after reading of how along some of the beaches the parents who had lost children would walk each morning hoping the tide would return their children. It was an image I could barely consider.

Of course the cyclic form of the pantuom seemed the only way to show the disappearance and later return of their bodies. Thank you for mentioning it, this one affected me also:

Waiting for the Tide

jth : )

 

[UnderYourSpell]

I remember this one, I wrote it after reading of how along some of the beaches the parents who had lost children would walk each morning hoping the tide would return their children. It was an image I could barely consider.

Of course the cyclic form of the pantuom seemed the only way to show the disappearance and later return of their bodies. Thank you for mentioning it, this one affected me also:

Waiting for the Tide

jth : )

It's not strictly a pantoum but it's still haunting

 

[fridayam]

http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=500246

Bandora's Pox (Her Affliction)
byMaria2394©

She rumbled wild with mysterious and
her outcome was usually wet-cat furious
acute fits of joy affecting her countenance,
wrestling her smile into a contortionist,
vigorously accosting
her face with back-bent knees.

Summoned as if she were man's best friend,
she was top-cat heavy with her own self esteem
and all the envious bitch-cats despised her.
Figment is how I addressed her
when she would listen, and I admired

Her profound ability to concentrate,
and I inquired as to her personal method
of attracting an appropriate mate.

Be sexy, just be sexy, flaunt your pussy
and purr.

She turned tail then winked and swaggered.
Bandora bristled as she wriggled
like a flea into the uncombed fur
of my own perverted mind.


©2005 by J. Walczesky

I don't get all of it, but fuck I admire the power and the imagery. Jean, in all her guises, is a fabulous poet.

 

[fridayam]

Another sandyb, because I love the erotic intensity of her poems.

http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=470400

prey
bysandyb©

the red-tailed hawk lifted off
the live oak in my backyard.
woodpeckers twittered as he
swooped in a precise glide with
wings cocked forward, eyes blazing
with feral intensity.
he speared me on his talons.
we flew past the cane brake to
the tall pines near the bayou.
blood gurgled from my wounds, and
glistened in the bright sunlight;
my skin prickled in the cold,
and blanched white in his harsh grip.
emptied into sky, filled with
his wildness, i felt only
gratitude for his hunger.

 

[butters]

i'm pretty struck by this one of Remec's - Afterwards

it builds intimacy, a loss, that hurts a heart to read.

 

[butters]

i'm glad you sent me off looking at some older pieces with this thread, friday - i'm finding this one touches quietly, too - a gentled sorrow

The Fool's legacy offered in writing