 |
Poems On Site: 198,500+ Comments On Poems: 427,000+ Forum Posts: 105,000+ |
Custom Search
|
|
|
||||
| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 03-June 08:19:40 AEST | ||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
Array
(
[sid] => 59674
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Poets are like Hands, Helpful
[time] => 2004-08-10 22:59:37
[hometext] => Few will understand this, to all my favorite poets I am asking for help
[bodytext] => Snyder your Uji Hills have stood handsomely under the weight of every single love poem… I have traveled silently behind you through Venus now I am letting you listen Oppenheimer you wrote about fleeting passions at St, Mark’s church remember I slept next to you salivating you have become my index for love that is why I am letting you listen Kelly you freed Christ from where I suspended him when we smoked the sea in that dead city near our hometown you owe me one Van Gogh ear silence is flipping my hair so I can write this now or never my tongue is ready to dry clean the air (my poem is to be read to the rhythm of guitar strings hitting flesh) A man who’s age is a finished pyramid likes to call me Bloody Trinity and I don’t like it one bit! This man has lost his hair he has lost his job but he still has his life long and intertwined with the world’s hair Snyder you know that my life is the length of a fingernail and the width of a pupil how can I compete? I can burn roads ahead to match his train of thought but burning is a crime This man loves me (in McGrath’s words) “like Hitler” because I am blond and weak weak weak I have only a tennis racket against his flood of love; and a dead sea with wings His name begins with “fair” and ends in “unfair” like a timeline of emotions and I am lost in the margins And this old cat swims through old routine traffic and I little “Kitten called Spring” (copyrighted C*mmings) while he passes me hiding in the soapy gutter I live through my stomach, Lamantia and you know that “children murder” when swallowed whole by love; a child like me called Kitten of Spring My genitals beaten to a pulp, Levine so sorry for these pink pillows suffocating his “black balls” I open crumbled maps to sexuality; black and white you KNOW this, Lavine Carruth you once asked the world “why speak of the use of poetry?” poetry uses US; grinding hearts against one another to spark vision to set fire to hopeless sad pages-ashes are melancholy ashes are love crumbs he bribes me with, once a day, maybe My poets you must write about his bargained arrogance in your coffins with splinters and charcoal bones I beg you I am neither creative or smart enough to make him understand I have one more favor in my little heart pocket to trouble you with (and you’ve all listened well like charming church birds) I need to know when is love ***** up enough to be called an obsession… [comments] => 3 [counter] => 167 [topic] => 43 [informant] => Ina [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
|
Menu
· 
Poetry
Community
Members
Areas
Reference
Search
Top
Others
Poetry is much like a great photo, a single "moment in time" capturing many feelings and emotions. Yet, they are very alive; creating stirrings within the readers who form visual "pictures" of the expressed emotions within the Poem. ©
Opinions expressed in the poetry, comments, forums etc. on this site are not necessarily those of this site, its owners and/or operators; but of the individuals who post items to this site.
Frequently Asked Questions | | | Privacy Policy | | | Contact Webmaster
All submitted items are Copyright © to their submitter. All the rest Copyright © 2002-2050 by Your Poetry Dot Com
All logos and trademarks in this site are property of their respective owners.
Script Generation Time: 0.052 Seconds. - View our Site Map | .© your-poetry.com